


Cheer For Me

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Angst and Humor, Background Character Death, Closeted Character, Enemies to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Social Media, Sports Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 18:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11766207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: *HIATUS WHILE FINISHING WRITING*Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki are both athletes with Olympic dreams; Yuuri as the star captain of the hockey team, Viktor as rising Champion of the figure skating world.Sparks fly when the duo cross paths, perhaps confirming what most already believe to be true: it doesn't matter what team you cheer for, what brand of skate you use, how good you are on the ice. There will always be one thing all hockey players can agree on: figure skaters suck.





	1. Your Hand Is A Map

**Author's Note:**

> \- [real life inspiration for Yuuri's character](https://youtu.be/VbTlsuRBfMg)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **I've tagged everything I can think of which may be triggering but stay safe. This will tackle the issue of homophobia pretty explicitly since hockey is a very homophobic sport. There are actually no 'out' NHL players.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri settles into a new country and a new school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I wanted a story about? A closeted NHL player learning to be comfortable with himself and sexuality with the guidance of a very flamboyant, never-had-a-straight-thought-in-his-life figure skater. Sadly it didn't exist sooooooo .....................
> 
> BOOM. FIC.
> 
> It's a bit of a domino effect story. Essentially Viktor and Yuuri are still Viktor and Yuuri but Yuuri moved away from Hasetsu and was brought up in a very masculine environment. He therefore did not become a figure skater, he became a hockey player.

Michigan is fucking cold.

He’s not supposed to use that word. Mari used to get scolded for using it. It’s on the list of words his dad says he’s specifically not supposed to use. But he can’t help it. The ‘f’ word seems rather appropriate in this situation. 

September wind is blowing hard up today, cancelling summer like a bad check. Clouds and footballs roll over the sky. There’s a passing bird heading south. A faint whiff of ice.

“Come on Vicchan,” he calls gently, guiding the poodle out of the cold and into the heat of the house.

He can hear the big lake breathing, forty miles away. Coughing up snow they'll soon find falling. On breakers and swells, the last boats tow fish and fat drunks between the piers and the sun descends into water, thoughtfully considering the nature of cold.

“And I'm moving back to Michigan,” Mark says, taking in the neighbourhood; somehow enjoying the cold air. “Why did I ever leave?”

Yuuri eyes the man with suspicion. He can think of several reasons and he’s only been here for a few hours. But he’s not going to say anything. His father is going through enough right now.

“Winter. Economic turmoil. Winter.” Toshiya supplies.

“Better than the El Nino forest fire having ass traffic ass property value ass shit that is SoCal,” Mark answers, “Oh. Wait. Have you seen the damned geese yet?”

“Not yet.”

“They're in flight, hundreds of miles north of here, in fog and rain. Feel the steady beat of their wings on this wind?”

Yuuri holds them responsible for this oncoming rush of air. For the grey sky that's no longer gold. For the lake that will no longer breathe. He envies them. They must know this is no place to be. Not while the wind is up and things begin to fall so thoughtlessly from the sky.

Mark holds up his hand and catches the attention of the Katsuki's, “First piece of advice: this is your map.”

“Your hand is a map?” Toshiya pulls out his own hand and looks down. Yuuri does the same.

Mark laughs. He says, “It's a surprisingly useful tool, especially when explaining to a Californian how to find places like Sleeping Bear Dunes,” he points to his pink nail, “or Bay City.” Mark next gestures to that wrinkled fleshy part between the thumb and forefinger. “In a pinch, you could get rough driving directions. Detroit is near the bottom of the thumb and Lansing is in the middle of the palm.”

Toshiya sees the opportunity and takes it. “I’m sure we’ll soon know the area like the back of our hand!”

_Oh Dad_ , Yuuri thinks.

Whether they’re in Japan or America he’s never going to change. Some things will always follow you over the border.

Mark makes his way towards the front porch, surveying the house one final time. There’s that distinct smell of fresh paint, dusty furniture and an emptiness of a space not-quite-lived in.

He abruptly clasps Toshiya's arm and squeezes his shoulder, “Well this is it buddy.”

Toshiya pats his back, “Thanks for coming down and helping us settle in.”

“Believe me, escaping the oven that is California right now was worth every penny spent on gas.” Mark wrings his hands. His brows draw together as he searches his friend’s face and he asks, “And if you need me to stay here any longer…”

“Mark – “

Yuuri hates the way his Dad’s voice breaks.

Hates that they’re here.

Hates that his mother’s not here.

Hates that Mari’s not here.

Hates the cold.

Hates how now nothing will ever be the same.

Mark looks at his old friend sadly but projects some humour into his voice when he says, “What can I say? Old bones disallow fear.”

Mark is Yuuri’s uncle. Not blood-uncle but one of those strange close family-friends that pop up at the holidays and other get-togethers, and your parents – parent, he corrects himself – refer to as such.

“If you’re old, I’m old,” Toshiya replies, replicating that tone of humourless amusement. “I’m just worried about Yuuri. It’s a big change from Hasetsu and without his mother… I just don’t know if he’ll like it here.”

Mark shakes his head, “You’ll love being Michiganders. The people here made this place my home in just over a year. People think the Midwest is the ‘armpit’ of America. I can truly say from living most of my life in the south that this has been one of the best experiences in my life."

"Really?"

"For sure. Things I have learned: Meijer is most definitely better than Walmart... Oh and when someone posts a Game of Thrones ‘Winter is coming’ meme, don’t write it off. Winter really is coming," he says seriously, "It’s coming with a vengeance.”

Yuuri looks wide-eyed at the windows already fogging up in the frosty air. “Winter already feels like it’s here,” he murmurs.

“Kid you have seen nothing yet – this is still summer!” Uncle Mark barks, throwing his bare arms up for emphasis. “It’s mild.”

“It’s cold,” Yuuri replies, voice flat. He doesn’t know how Mark is in nothing but a t-shirt and jeans. His boots don’t even look that thick.

“Oh my sweet summer child!” Mark says, tone teasing, as he ruffles Yuuri’s hair. “what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, my little lord, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.”

“George R.R. Martin?”

Mark nods, “Man may never have stepped foot in MI but man knows what a MI winter is.”

“I wish you were joking.”

“Yeah… wrap up! Invest in a decent boiler. Get used to shovelling snow. Pray.”

Toshiya thanks his friend again and the duo say their goodbyes.

“Final words of wisdom before I hit the road: Remember that it's pop not soda. Faygo Rock n Rye trumps all pop, and the 'c' in Mackinac is silent.”

Yuuri looks at his palm. Looks at the line of houses separated by huge green gardens and trees. Looks at his palm again.

This _is_ his entire world now, he guesses. 

* * *

Michigan certainly isn’t Japan.

There’s no place for timid little boys who like ballet and figure skating to slip into. Maybe that was the biggest culture shock for him to accept. The boys are boyish. The girls are girly. And that’s that. It’s something Yuuri learns quickly enough to stop himself from becoming a target.

There’s the usual suspects: nerds, jocks, cheerleaders and outsiders. And just like those ridiculous movies he watched growing up, everyone sticks to their own tight-knit cliques.

His elementary cohort is full of hockey-obsessed boys. They're macho little dicks generally, a bunch of junior jackasses jumping and twirling all over the ice every lunch hour. Yuuri doesn’t dare join them and certainly doesn’t practice ice skating in front of them. He’s seen what they say about the figure skaters. Calls the girls _stuck-up bitches_ and the boys _fairies_. He doesn’t want to make himself a victim too.

Yuuri sits on the side lines and observes. After watching their games a couple of times he gets the general idea of how to play.

An ice hockey team is made up of six players, each with a specific position and job. The job of offense is to score goals, and the defence is there to protect the goal. It’s simple to understand – except for when they start brawling and their only objective seems to be who can slam the other into the ice with the most force.

One of the boys – Jimmy or Jim? – finally loses it after a few of the guys knock into him, “I have the puck, stab me with your stick one more time and I will throw it.”

“Stop hogging it then dickhead!” Another one of the boys replies.

One of the taller boys on the opposing team smashes into Jimmy before he can throw anything and the puck skids across the ice.

The goalie throws his hands up in the air, “Jimmy you moron!”

“Moron? You kidding me?” Jimmy answers in exasperation, “That guy was breathing down my neck. I think he wanted a piece of me.”

The guy who’s supposed to be marking him throws his head back, “Yeah right. Dream on Smith.”

Martin, right wing, laughs, “I agree with Jim, think that guy wanted a piece of Jimmy-pie.”

“Oh no Anderson. I don’t want a piece. I want the whole thing. Open you up nice and wide until you beg for it.”

“Wanna know what I think?” Martin spits in retaliation, all niceties gone out the window, “I think you’re a fucking long-haired queer.”

“That’s enough!” the coach intervenes. Yuuri doesn’t know whether it’s because of the ‘f’ word or the ‘q’ word. “Anderson get off my ice sheet. Go cool it.”

“I’m not gonna be kicked off for that. It’d be different if he were actually gay!”

The blonde boy blows a kiss, “Bye Martin, I’ll see you in the showers.”

Martin whirls back around and tackles the guy to the ground, throwing a series of punches until the coach decides he’s let it go on for long enough, dragging them off each other. The vein on the balding man’s forehead throbs, “Off! Now!”

“Asshat!”

“No Coach!” the team’s left-wing begs, “We don’t have anyone else to play in Martin’s place.”

“Anderson should have thought about that before he brought that trash talk onto my rink.”

“But- “

“You want to join him Wilson? Don’t think just because your daddy plays with the big boys that you’ll get any special treatment.”

Leon growls, “I didn’t ask for no special treatment.”

“What about him?” Kaito, one of the defensemen, asks pointing to the stands. Yuuri can’t be sure but he feels like he’s the one being singled out. “He could play for Martin.”

“Too small – look at him.” Leon Wilson says without looking at Yuuri, just knowing he’s a Japanese transfer student.

“Leon mate, hate to break it to you but he’s about the same size as you.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m fit.”

“And modest.”

“Come on, it’s only for one match.”

Before Leon can protest Kaito calls him over, “Oi! Katsuki, we need another guy. You skate?”

“Uh,” Yuuri could say no and avoid the embarrassment of helplessly flailing around the rink but he finds he doesn’t want to and he mumbles out an “a bit,” before he can stop himself.

“Great! You’re on right wing.”

All of the players go "Full Barry Melrose" slicking back their hair in order to get into the game.

This is happening.

Right wing. He works the right side of the ice for the most part. He needs to be a physical player who is good along the boards and in the corner. He is responsible for the opposition’s left defenseman in the defensive zone.

Once he's in his gear, he's thrown straight into the deep end.

It’s tough, he’s not going to lie.

On the ice, the basics are the same as figure skating, but there are many differences.

The biggest thing is the toe pick. The first time he steps on the ice in hockey skates, he gets a little over confident, picks up speed, forgets there’s no toe pick, face plants and slides about 20 yards.

The easiest way to explain the transition is that in hockey, skating is a means to an end, you skate to play... but figure skating the skating is the objective. There's a larger emphasis on every stride you take.

But when he finally gets the hang of it, he enjoys himself.

There's nothing quite like sailing around on skates. Best feeling ever.

And surprisingly, he's fairly decent: “Well screw me side-ways, Katsuki’s got game.”

Every pass, touch and turn is deliberate and works to create space. You look for open room around you to turn and go. A lot of the fluidity and individual space from skating trades nicely.

His stamina helps with staying up during scrums and his time as a dancer seems to really help him with his footwork. He's required to have the same low center of gravity on the ice and tight turns, hockey stops and edge pressure comes easy to him.

Passing is not just 'getting the puck' to your teammate, it's putting him in a position to make a play with it. Putting it on his forehand or if he's setting up for a one timer you don't necessarily want to zing it to him as hard as you can.

Sometimes instead of passing, you put it in an area where you know he can get to it. Yuuri quickly learns you should definitely be leading players when on the rush and allowing them to build speed, when applicable.

Martin starts chanting from the penalty box, “Roses are red, violets are blue. There’s always an Asian better than you.”

And Yuuri's got to admit the thrill of the game is addictive.

Once you play that first game, it’s in your blood forever. 

* * *

Yuuri loves hockey.

It's one hell of a steep (and often painful/bruise-filled) learning curve, but he's hooked. You can't beat the feeling of things suddenly 'clicking' and stuff becoming muscle memory (e.g. transitions, crossovers) instead of requiring you to actively think about all of the individual contributing micro-steps.

Yuuri knows it's probably quite cliche now, but without doubt, hockey is the most fun he's had while truly being terrible at something. He starts each subsequent week being slightly less terrible than the one prior = progress.

There's none of that huge pressure figure skating has for things to be perfect. Even at some of the higher competitive levels, it seems like the guys are generally laid back, and care about other teammates.

In skating he didn't have many friends, Yuuri had competition. Here, he's got an entire team of 'bros'.

Toshiya doesn’t question it when Yuuri comes home and purges all the figure skating things from his room.

He seems pleased to see the end of the Viktor Nikiforov phase.

Vicchan watches, wagging his tail and yipping as the black-haired boy takes down his posters and fills the walls with images of icons like _Gordie Howe, Mario Lemieux, Bobby Orr_ and _Wayne Gretzky_.

The pile of figure skating posters sits on a pile on Yuuri’s bed, side-by-side with his old skates. He can’t seem to part with them. Those stupid crumpled up glossy covers and magazine cut-outs Yuuko had given him hold a certain sentimentality.

He clutches one of his tiny skates to his chest. His mother always encouraged his skating dreams.

If he lets them go is he letting her go too? 

* * *

“Someone once said it takes ten thousand hours to master anything.”

“We’ve been here for an hour Kaito,” Martin says, already tired and switching places to let Yuuri play.

Martin holds two records. Most time spent in the penalty box and the only guy in the club who has took off his skate and tried to stab somebody. The red-headed boy has got a lot of intensity and a mean slap shot.

“So nine-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine hours to go?” Kaito asks.

Kaito – or just ‘Jones’ – is rough and tumble with a gritty crust, but refuses to say “no”.

He’s a defenseman. A team at full strength has two — one on the left side and another on the right.

There are three primary kinds of defensemen. One is creative and offensive-minded; he likes to handle the puck and lead the team up ice, but is not too physical. Another is defensive-minded, a stay-at-home bruiser who plays a physical game and doesn’t often venture out of his zone with the puck. And there are those rare athletes who are a combination of the two.

Kaito is that special kind of combo.

“Ugh. Nine-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine hours with you losers,” Jimmy, the other defenseman (of the former breed), groans. "Just put me out of my misery now."

“I vote we take a break,” Daniel Campbell suggests. His vote is usually law.

Dan quarterbacks the club at both ends of the ice. As center, you have to be good at face-offs and passing, and it doesn’t hurt if you’re a good shot as well. A lot of creativity is needed in this position — and a lot of hockey smarts.

“Seconded,” Liam, Dan’s best friend and their goalie, says.

“Fine,” Kaito agrees. “You girls take a break while the real men keep going.”

And that’s what starts off their next pissing contest.

Being teammates, they don’t get into fistfights unless the occasion calls for it. Mostly they resolve conflicts by messing around. As hockey players, they all like to see who can spray ice the highest or just like to skate fast. Hockey can be violent, as teams often like to set the tone for a game with ferocious checking. Many highly physical hits are perfectly legal. But there is an element of speed and grace to it.

“Snow me again man and I’ll goalie stick slash the crap out of you,” Liam says in warning to Kaito – who just likes to test the goalie’s temper by getting a little too close to his crease.

Jimmy and Martin share a _look_ before speeding around the rink and sending ice sailing at Liam together.

Liam grunts, shaking off the slosh, and glides after them. Yuuri and Dan swiftly move out of the way, narrowly avoiding the collision of Liam’s giant frame flying at an unbelievable speed across the ice sheet.

“Excuse me!” That one figure skating teacher, the one that always has her skaters take up the most ice for their own personal learning, comes over to them. She's already told them multiple times to stop and that she will have the manager kick them out.

Liam falls on his ass and Dan sees the chance to spray him with shards of ice – so he does.

The figure skating teacher glides back over and completely loses it saying if any of them go fast or spray ice again they are getting kicked out. Jimmy sighs and goes off to have a talk with the manager, he’s good with people in that respect, and when he shakes hands with the rink guy the woman is told to leave the kids alone.

Everything seems to be okay again until one of her skating students deliberately skates into Kaito, the girl can’t be much older than them. Thirteen tops.

“Watch it!” Kaito responds.

“You’re the one who skated into me,” she protests.

_Liar,_ he thinks.

“Whatever,” Kaito replies, “just don’t do it again. Go practice your silly twirling away from me.”

“Silly twirling?” She parrots indignantly. “Figure skating is a sport which includes drama, theater and athletics. From the beautiful movements to the music, to the face expressions and extended interpretations out to the audience. Figure skating is an art.”

From what Yuuri's experienced a good amount of figure skaters over here come from a spoiled background. The rink bends over backwards for them and house leagues are constantly switching ice times because of the figure skating program here. Hockey pickups get moved on a _regular_ basis.

All directly after school games or practices have figure skaters giving them nasty looks because a game ran five minutes over. It’s pathetic.

It’s not like they can’t afford to pay for the extra ice time when they're skating around with sparkly, diamond encrusted skates.

The thing he doesn't understand is why figure skaters think they have priority on the ice sheet and skate in his team’s way at open sessions. Especially when they get their own ice time that is always empty.

He’s been hit once with a person skating backwards, their skate in the air, and fallen over many times dodging the nuisances.

They have their own time; it is not their ice during public skates.

"Sorry then,” Kaito responds, a lazy smirk making it’s way across his face, “I guess I was too busy admiring your _artistry_.” He turns back to the rest of the team, “That's the only good thing about figure skaters. They're flexible.”

The boys fall over each other laughing and the girl flushes a deep red, making herself scarce.

Yuuri can't bring himself to laugh along.

When the girl starts skating again, she puts as much distance as she can between herself and Kaito, much to Kaito’s relief.

"Just the sight of a group of figure skaters in the lobby before my game brings my mood down a few notches."

"They get way too much preferential treatment."

"Yeah they complain that us stopping creates to many "inconsistencies" within the ice but anytime they drag their toe pic across the ice its whatever."

Yuuri rarely has to contend with figure skaters on the ice, but he hates having to walk through them if his ice time butts up against theirs. They're probably the rudest group of people he has to encounter on a regular basis because they're completely oblivious to the world around them.

He doesn't remember acting like that.

"They wander into my way and stop while I'm trying to lug my 25lb bag into the locker room, blocking the walkways to chit-chat and don't move," the others grunt their ascendance, suffering similar situations themselves, "and they let doors slam in my face as I'm trying to squeeze through with all my gear."

The girl must have tattle-tailed because her coach marches over… again, getting involved like she always does. She’s going off about how brutish boys on the ice should be more aware.

_More aware_.

That's funny.

It's always the figure skaters claiming their own face-off circle or center ice and doing whatever they want, constantly getting too close with their skates in the air.

Kaito is having none of it, "Your prissy Princess is the one who skated into me. Stop sticking your big beak where it doesn’t belong lady.”

"You should learn to bite your tongue!" Skinny blonde ponytail waves her finger in Liam’s face next. He looks at her in exasperation, he didn’t even do anything! He’s just minding his own business. And his net. Liam, as goalie, is constantly wearing ‘ _touch my net and die’_ expression.

Her skinny blonde eyebrows look like they're going to jump off her face when Kaito turns around and flashes her a charming grin, "No can do, too many girls have told me it's a gift from the Gods." For extra emphasis – and to dig himself a deeper grave – Kaito also rolls his tongue and winks.

This really seems to set her off.

She goes on in an even louder voice, "Your coach will be hearing about this!"

"Good!” Kaito says cheerfully, “I hope he does. He might even get a crack out of it. Some of us actually have a sense of humour."

“I’m serious,” she promises, face wrinkled up like a prune, “I’m going to talk to him right this second.”

“Brilliant. Tell him hi for me.”

"I—" She wrings her hands. "You—"

"Bloody dragon-lady," the tawny-eyed boy mutters as she stomps off in an enraged storm, ponytail swinging behind her.

“Tell me about it,” Jimmy agrees, “it’s like the first time they put on those sparkly tights and scrape their hair back into those ballerina buns, a hockey stick permanently gets inserted in their asses.”

Exhibit A of why Yuuri keeps his figure skating past as just that. The past.

“Maybe the blood flow to their brain gets cut-off from how tight they put up their hair?”

“Don’t know dude, but it would explain why their eyes always look like they’re going to pop out their heads.”

“Nah, I think that’s a pretty universal reaction to you,” one of the lads teases, nudging Kaito.

“Fucking figure skaters man, think they own the place.”

Figure skaters and hockey players.

Two types of athletes, two types of skating, two groups that may not always find common ground — or in this case, ice.

Each sport feels ownership of the ice, and when there's limited availability, the claws really come out.

From an early age, fans of sports played on ice inevitably have the discussion about which sport is tougher to play, hockey or figure skating.

It’s a battle of the blades.

Each athlete trains their entire lives to get to the spotlight. Hockey players dream of playing for their favourite team, scoring the winning goal and winning the Stanley cup. Figure skaters spend many years, competing at many levels before making it to the professional ranks: Provincials (Canadian figure skaters), Nationals, Worlds and finally the Olympics where fewer make it and only the best survive.

Chances are, if a professional figure skater and a professional hockey player were to do a race on the ice, they would each have a chance of winning. If the race is shorter, the hockey player would likely win as they’ve been training for fast bursts. But as the race gets longer, the long strides of a figure skater would prove more efficient, and they would most likely pull ahead.

Yuuri wonders what would have happened if that night back in Hasetsu hadn’t of happened.

Would he have continued skating at Ice Castle with Yuuko and Takeshi?

Would _he_ have become a resident twirl-boy himself – flower-crown, spandex pants, white boots and all?

He can’t imagine it. He can’t imagine his life to revolve around anything but the stick, puck, ice and net.


	2. Made to Last

Yuuri comes to enjoy winter.

The way the frost steals the green; pine needles turning from tawny to amber. With hockey season lighting up the silver-screens, Yuuri indulges in his new-found love for hazelnut flavoured coffee. And while his dad threatens a move to Florida at least twice a week from November through April, Yuuri just wants it to snow more.

Growing up in the mountains in Hasetsu, there weren’t many ponds or lakes, and none that would freeze over. Sure, there was Ice Castle to skate at but because of the mild weather, hockey was never a huge thing. That’s probably one of the biggest reasons why Yuuri never picked up hockey until this year, in this town. 

The name of the town isn't really relevant. It's like many towns in the US - just a sprawl of urban-mess at odds with the otherwise rural environment. And now that he can call himself a hockey player in a state with tons of lakes and ponds, Yuuri finds himself looking forward to the cold weather.

Lucky for him, Uncle Mark wasn’t lying.

Winter comes with the fury of a snow-man armada, forcing hats and scarves out of their closets to give the snowy world so much more colour.

Even on the brightest day, the sun remains a tiny pale white up in the sky and Yuuri bears witness to a bizarre suburban tradition; eventually - and almost simultaneously - everyone stops mowing their grass. It's some kind of unspoken agreement, universally accepted since all the ice would just ruin the lawnmower blades. The sweet, fertile scent no longer sticks to the air on his way home from school and Yuuri finds he doesn't miss it so much when it's replaced by the scent of crisp fallen leaves and maple syrup.

He spends the colder months adapting to many strange but wonderful things. For starters, 'trick-or-treating' - a weird practice that he's assured is _normal_ here. Yuuri can't help but still be a little sceptical. _Apparently_ it's tradition to go from house to house in costume and accumulate mass quantities of candy via just asking for it. Isn't that crazy? In Japan the common feeling of avoiding causing inconvenience to someone else is far too strong for anything like that to take place. Yuuri has to admit that it _is_ fun - despite the guilt which remains in the back of his mind for taking things without giving anything in return.

But, best of all: the ponds freeze earlier than usual this year.

He senses a little buzz among the members of the hockey team as the temperatures sink below the almighty 32 degree threshold. Once they get word that Lake Tipols — a pond on the north-eastern edge of town — is open for business, Yuuri finally gets his first taste of real, Michigan pick-up pond hockey. A few of his teammates set up a time to meet and — after putting on a few extra layers to brace the Michigan cold — they head toward the frozen body of water.

Tipols Lake and its surrounding park is a magical place, really. It’s a huge, U-shaped pond that’s probably big enough for nine or ten NHL-sized rinks. It's so clear and smooth that it looks like a mirror; they plough the snow and clean the ice every day. Don’t ask him how they do it (he prefers to believe that they have a magical Zamboni), but there’s always a decently fresh sheet of ice in the morning. They even put a handful of nets on the ice, so they can play a full game if they find a goalie or two.

Off in the corner, next to a wooden hut selling hot chocolate, is a warming shelter where you rent skates. It’s usually full of a wide range of people — parents helping their children put on tiny skates, couples getting ready for a romantic skate and of course, hockey players tightening up their laces.

Once they get on the ice, the team warms up a bit shooting into one of the nets. Then, Jimmy, the social being that he is, goes over to another group that is doing the same thing on a different net and asks them if they want to start a game using both. The other team is made up of four girls and two guys, who eagerly agree to join. Yuuri had expected a little reluctance from the other boys. The girls look lithe and dainty and, not to be rude, but his friends aren't exactly campaigning for gender equality. However, he finds no such hesitation. Jimmy and Kaito even help two of the younger girls with the game basics.

Then, they throw their sticks in the middle of the ice.

After Dan blindly divvies up the sticks, they take their sides and start playing.

If this were a movie, this would be the part where a light-hearted song would play in the background. A montage would appear on the screen featuring a bunch of boys and girls smiling, smacking the puck, attempting to stickhandle around each other, scoring into empty nets and even falling down, laughing.

This is another side of hockey Yuuri falls in love with.

A couple of older guys arrive, some alpha-male college kids – maybe even some from the junior league. The guys look at the younger kids for a quick second, laugh and then pass Yuuri the puck to start the breakout.

The montage has gains a few new scenes – _bear-like boys skidding along with ballet-bodied girls._

This is what pond hockey is all about.

It’s about playing the game you love with friends and strangers who also love the game. It’s about getting a nice workout in the open, chilly air. It’s about calling your own infractions and helping your opponents up if they fall.

And it’s about bringing people together who probably would not otherwise have a reason to talk to each other.

“You boys have fun?” Toshiya asks as the six of them arrive back at the house. They huddle through the door as a pack, clinging to the radiators and defrosting their fingers.

Yuuri shakes snow out of his hair, sending flakes melting onto the carpet. “We did thank you dad,” he says, voice at least sixty degrees warmer than his body temperature.

“Mr Katsuki you should come and play a game with us!” Kaito prompts.

The others cheer along their encouragement:

“You should!”

“It’s so much fun.”

“We’d go easy on you.”

“We’ll teach you.”

“Come with us next time.”

Toshiya smiles, his eyes crinkling at the sides, “Oh I don’t know about that,” he laughs, “it’s a little too cold out there for me.”

“We’ll lend you some thermals,” Kaito says, unwrapping his scarf from his neck.

“An old man doesn’t need so much excitement in his life. A good book and a warm fire does me just fine.”

Yuuri eyes the pile of books resting on the old mahogany table: _Norwegian Wood_ by Haruki Murakami, _Cannery Row_ by John Steinbeck and _The Stand_ by Stephen King grab his attention first. However, burrowed stealthily under a dusty old copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ is a fresh copy of _The Grief Recovery Handbook, 20th Anniversary Expanded Edition: The Action Program for Moving Beyond Death, Divorce, and Other Losses including Health, Career, and Faith._ Down the spine is creased; several page corners are upturned.

“A good book…” Yuuri murmurs, a pensive smile coating his lips like dry paint.

“That reminds me,” Toshiya suddenly says, following Yuuri’s line of vision and deciding it best to change the subject. “I think Yuuko sent some things for you. Books or magazines or something like that. I left them outside your room.”

The boys ears perk up at that. Jimmy is first to ask: “Who’s Yuuko?”

“An old girlfriend?” Martin adds.

“A current long-distance girlfriend?”

“Is she a model on the magazines?” Jimmy asks, “Wait – more importantly… are they Playboy?”

“Yuuri! You didn’t tell us you had a girl. Don’t you trust us with her?” Kaito asks in faux offence.

“I don’t trust you with my mother Jones,” Liam remarks.

“Well that’s a damn shame because Julie trusts me,” Kaito winks and Liam goes to throw a punch at him (which he probably deserves) but he moves just in time. As Kaito dodges the blow, he cups one hand over his mouth to whisper, “MILF” to the other guys.

Yuuri winces, turning to look at his dad. He seems more amused than anything but Yuuri says, “Okay that’s it – we’re going to my room.”

“Yuuri’s room!” the boys cheer in union and disappear up the stairs.

“Boys will be boys,” Toshiya chuckles, hearing their ruckus on the landing above.

The small package from Yuuko sits outside Yuuri's bedroom door as his dad said. Her familiar scrawl marks the top of the brown paper in a deep black ink. A pang of nostalgia hits him as he remembers days at Ice Castle and that same handwriting doodling some song choices for made up Short Programs and Free Skates.

The paper crinkles under his touch and he peels off some of the packaging as he enters his room, bits arbitrarily floating to the ground in a trail.

He quickly regrets this decision - not because he's littered and will have to pick up the pieces, but because he's instantly blinded the glossy cover. Silver hair and blue eyes stare back at him.

_Viktor Nikiforov._

It's a figure skating magazine - why has she sent him a figure skating magazine?

Guilt nags at him for being ungrateful, Yuuko probably figured that he'd like it and that's why she sent it. He appreciates the thought but right now he really doesn't appreciate the gift.

"What you got there?" Kaito leans over his shoulder and tries to satisfy his curiosity.

"It's definitely porn," Jimmy laughs.

"From his reaction, yeah. Definitely."

White hot panic floods through his veins. Not porn. He wishes it was porn. There wouldn't have an issue if it was porn.

He guards the parcel closer to his chest, "It's not porn," he says, "it's just private."

"Private?" Kaito asks. He smiles at Yuuri as he looks at the floor. Kaito approaches and Yuuri can hear his own heartbeat as he gets nearer and plucks the parcel from Yuuri's fingers.

His ears feel hot and there's a funny tightness in his chest.

The magazine lands in Kaito's hands and Yuuri looks to the floor again as he opens it.

Kaito's burnished eyes dart from the magazine to Yuuri. "Oh, that's unexpected," he says finally. His reaction is slower than Yuuri anticipated. By the time he's finished speaking, Kaito's mouth has settled into a fine line - a sturdy, unwavering not-quite-frown. There's a moment's hesitation, a calculated decision before he allows surprise to crescendo over his face.

Yuuri feels he is supposed to see the conflict in his eyes before it is quickly replaced by an innocent naivety, his mouth softening and his eyebrows raising in one fluid motion as if to appease the eager audience surrounding him. Yuuri could almost call his expression comical if it wasn't for the circumstances, but that is the point, isn't it? A magic trick for the rest of the people in the room. All but the two of them, caught in this little show.

"What is it?"

"One of those backward comics," Kaito lies and Yuuri lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. "What are they called again? It's like anime but a book?"

"Manga?" 

"Ah, yeah. I think that's it," he says, "it's some manga."

"Oh," Jimmy says, losing interest just as quickly as the others do.

Yuuri throws a grateful smile in Kaito's direction as the others start chatting amiably. Yuuri mostly listens, every now adding something himself but his mind is elsewhere.

Why would Kaito protect him like that?

* * *

  **IceMadonna says:**

\- yuuri u changed ur MSN name O.O

\- u there??

\- Where has viktor gone from your name omg r u dead

__________________ 

**_IceMadonna has just sent a Nudge!_ **

__________________

_**IceMadonna has just sent a Nudge!** _

_________________

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Stop with the nudges omg plzzzzz

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- Heyyyyy

\- yeah i got assigned my number today

\- I’m playing centre with dan

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- And Yuuri lives

\- Told you so Yuuko

**IceMadonna says:**

\- Center? What? That sounds important! SO COOL

\- Who’s Dan?

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Our replacement

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- One of my friends

\- NOT a replacement, he’s a teammate and he’s nice

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- LOL ‘friends’

**IceMadonna says:**

\- Teammate?

\- We miss you at the rink Yuuri :/

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- She’s been making me do the victor routines with her

 **IceMadonna says** :

\- Viktor with a k

\- Don’t fight me on dis

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- I miss you guys too and so does vicchan

\- And its for hockey

**IceMadonna says:**

\- OMG Vicchan! How does he like Michigan?

\- I’m so jealous of all the snow!!!!

\- HOCKEY -.- what happened to skating on the same ice as Viktor……….????????

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- Dont be jealous siruisly its so cold

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- You quit skating then?

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- Kinda? Idk its difficult to explain

\- Hockey is so cool

\- I just really like doing an actual sport

**IceMadonna says:**

\- WTF

\- Skating is an ACTUAL sport.

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Oooooooooooooh she used a full stop

\- Yuuri thinks hes too good 4 us now

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- Not what I meant!

\- !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

\- !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

\- !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

\- !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

\- Its just different here idk how to explain

**IceMadonna says:**

\- U shouldnt change who u r to fit in

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- Im not

\- I really like hockey :)

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Wheneva my dad watches it its just guys hitting eachother with long sticks and shouting

**Katsuki19 says:**

\- No no no its amazing!!!

\- Anyway g2g practice

\- Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

**IceMadonna says:**

\- NOOOOOO

\- Don’t goooooooooooooooooooooooooo

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Think he’s gone

**IceMadonna says:**

\- Don’t leave me alone with takeshi

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Yeah she might start doing weird things like being nice to me XD

 **IceMadonna says** :

\- X.X I am nice 2 u

\- Except for when ur mean 2 yuuri

_________________

**Katsuki19 has left the conversation**

_________________

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Wow he really left us

**IceMadonna says:**

\- Have fun :( bye!!!!!

**TooCool_Takeshi says:**

\- Soooooooooooooooooooooo ;)

__________________

**IceMadonna has left the conversation**

__________________

* * *

Normality is a strange realm to navigate your way through.

It’s being visible when you’re in class. It’s not ducking your head in the cafeteria. It’s having plans at the weekends and afterschool... It’s watching the big game with your dad.

A certain stigma surrounds being a jock. It comes with the territory. People just assume that you’re cool, that you’re social, that you’re casually confident. Yuuri’s never been used to this, being a wallflower all his life. It takes a while for him to realise that people are staring at him for the right reasons, not because there’s something wrong with him.

Whenever he walks down the corridor with Kaito at his side and a hockey jersey on his back, he feels like a fraud. A sheep sheltered in the skin of a lion. Yuuri can’t shake the queasiness rocking his insides that the hockey team will figure it out soon enough. They’ll see that he doesn’t belong. That he’s the kind of person they should be hurling their insults at.

There’s a sense of the outside pressing against him, pushing for a return to reality. A slight pull. He loses his train of thought.

“Katsuki, yo man,” Kaito waves his hand over his face. Yuuri lets out a deep sigh and feels himself loosen at the sound. When he blinks Kaito lets out a breath of relief, “You had me going for a minute there. Welcome back to earth.”

“Huh? Oh sorry,” Yuuri replies finally, voice floating too far away from his ears to hear. “Spaced out a little.”

“A little?” Kaito asks with a raised eyebrow.

Martin breezes past them, quipping “Katsuki just likes to imagine he’s away from you.”

“Yeah can’t blame him,” Leon chimes. “Jones is awful company.”

“Shut up!” Kaito laughs pulling Leon into a headlock but smiling in spite of himself.

They’ve all grown a little from elementary to middle school, limbs stretching and shoulders broadening. Their playful roughhousing has become a little more lethal; more often than not one of them coming away with a bloody nose or mild concussion.

At first, playing hockey had become a hobby, one to replace ballet and figure skating. Then it had become a commitment – one he enjoyed devoting hours and hours to. Nowadays it’s more of a lifestyle.

There’s no way of just adding hockey to your schedule, it’s _making_ hockey your schedule. It’s picking up your skates and stick at every given chance and hitting the battleground. Figure skating never made him feel like this. Strong – just like a warrior. Figure skating made him feel like he wasn't good enough. Idol worship will do that to a person. Yuuri can see that now and he resents that he's still prone to constantly comparing himself to everyone else on his team and NHL players.

On the rink Kaito is doing that thing where he puffs up his chest, bringing out his Hero Hair. Yuuri knows there’s only one likely way this might end, from the last time he brought his Hero Hair out. There were tears, for one, and he ended up bleeding into the drinks machine.

For the first period Yuuri watches the game from the bench and slowly slides back towards the centre-ice door, where his next shift awaits. The team seems to have found themselves in a hole after giving up two quick goals within the first ten minutes and then one of their players getting knocked down behind the net when the big neon score-board was at 43:00. The ref raises his arm and Yuuri’s sure that they’re getting a power play – but no.

Their right wing is sent to the box for checking.

The arena fills with discontented students. They're fired up with insults to hurl like “What the fuck was that?” and the other team’s supporters, yelling back, “Justice you blind whore!”. Yuuri glances at the coach of their opposition, chewing out one of the floppy-haired boys on the bench. The kid looks like he’d been crying and Yuuri averts his attention back to the game just as the ref blows his whistle.

His team stacks their penalty kill with some of their best players and instead of playing defence, they just attack. The anger from the wrongful penalty spurs some of the best play Yuuri’s ever seen from the team yet – finally hitting the back of the net with two minutes of first period left on a short-handed goal.

“Don’t blame me for letting in a goal when my team has decided they forgot how to hockey,” Liam says in defence when the first play is over.

“Right,” Martin says, getting up in Liam’s space, “and just because the refs are blind and don’t call interference, doesn’t mean I won’t try to rearrange your face.”

Dan pulls off his helmet and spits out his mouth guard, “You two want a room?”

In a corner, Coach fiddles with the buttons of the thermostat - the temperature drops so suddenly that they’re all shivering, except one of the Swedish transfers, who’s practically mewling in delight.

“If you’re all going to have a good brawl,” he says, “I suggest you take it outside, but if you want to win-“

Kaito nudges Yuuri in the ribs, whispering, “Oh no, he's pulling out the _'Miracle on Ice'_ speech...”

“You know what that means?” Yuuri replies, offering the taller boy a side-ways glance.

“Yeah: we're fucked.”

Coach tends to save this little number for when they’re playing especially shit. Like today.

“… The romantic notion that a bunch of college scrubs felled the world’s greatest ice hockey team through sheer luck and determination is misguided,” he relays, pacing along the line, “Brooks spent a year-and-a-half shaping that team. Tryout camps, psychological testing.. the team spent four months playing a grinding schedule of exhibition games across Europe and North America. There was no matching the Europeans in skill. What did Brooks do?”

“Fuck if I know,” Martin mutters.

Coach throws a glare at the ceiling, Yuuri likes to imagine that he’s glaring at God but he’s probably actually just trying not to set Anderson off by giving him one of his famous six-feet-under glares. He turns on his heel, sneaker squeaking across the ground and says, “Katsuki. What did Brooks do?”

Yuuri hates how coach always does this – constantly singles him out. Kaito says it’s because Yuuri is their Coach’s favourite. Yuuri knows better. He thinks it’s because Coach knows that Yuuri will somehow know the answer – unfortunately that’s often overestimation on his Coach’s behalf.

Yuuri hopes those parts of the speech, immortalised in his brain, materialise out of his mouth when he answers, “He emphasised speed, conditioning and discipline?”

“Exactly,” Coach doesn’t crack a smile – but he’s damn near it. _Thank god for retaining knowledge_. He might not have to run suicides if they fail today. “Knowing how luck plays a large role in short tournaments, he wanted a team that could grab whatever opportunities came its way.”

Martin stretches his legs out, kicking Kaito’s helmet off the bench. He asks, “Coach, no offence, but what does this have to do with us?”

“Regional and college rivalries ran high among players, most from Minnesota or Massachusetts. Brooks worked to unite them, often against himself. He challenged them, questioning whether they were good enough, tough enough, worthy of the task.” Here, Coach points to each and every one of them. Almost asking if they are worthy of their task. “Ramsey said Brooks messed with their minds at every opportunity. And you know what the Captain said? ‘If Herb came into my house today, it would still be uncomfortable’. This is from a big guy. Mike Eruzione.”

“If you came to my house _ever_ it would be uncomfortable,” one of the second liners jokes.

"Tell me about it - dude used to date my mum," Liam grumbles.

Kaito turns around and grins. He says, "Julie sure gets around!"

Coach rolls his eyes and continues with his speech, “Brooks’ tactics must be credited. Before the Olympics, seeing the need for more mobility on the blue line, he asked Dave Christian to switch from forward to defense. He managed to get goaltender Jim Craig to peak at exactly the right time. His quest for speed produced a trio of centers – Broten, Johnson, Mark Pavelich – that could really skate.”

“Why are still living on _‘Miracle on Ice’_?” groans Jimmy.

“Yeah aren’t the Olympics coming up? Don’t you think this year’s team will make history too?”

Coach shakes his head like he’s listening to morons – in his mind he probably is, “We're living on it because it will never happen again. And by never I don't mean winning medals in the Olympics, but a bunch of kids beating a bunch of seasoned veterans that could have made up an NHL all-star team. Not to mention the political bullshit aspect of the game that I don't need to rehash.”

“Dunno about that. Russia’s still pretty frosty with us,” Kaito points out.

Coach either doesn’t hear him of chooses not to. Yuuri’s inclined to believe the latter from the stern look the eagle-eyed man throws in Kaito’s direction. It’s the look he only ever reserves for when one of them has done something brain-rottenly dumb.

“To trivialise the game with things like 'As great as it was, and as awesome an accomplishment, I think the next guys would like to write their own chapter,' shows a true lack of understanding of that game.” Coach states, “You don't write your own chapter to this book, this book is closed forever and shelved as the greatest moment in US sports."

1980 is hallowed ground.

They all lapse into silence. Looking back, Yuuri has to concede that the icy miracle was achieved by enormous ambition, coupled with great passing, checking, speed, and sound puck-control. It’s not just something to aspire to – it’s untouchable.

The whistle blows again and Liam shoves his gloves back on, glowering at Dan, “Don’t touch or hit my water bottle; water bottle police are always on patrol.”

Liam’s water bottle – also untouchable.

That’s fair enough. Surprisingly, Liam doesn’t wince anymore when Yuuri steps out on the blue line. That’s got to mean he’s noticeably improved.

Someone shouts “Center!”, and it takes Yuuri a second to realise that it’s his turn. Yuuri bounces over the boards, conveniently finding himself standing on the right side of center ice. The other team’s left winger doesn’t see him come over the boards and he narrowly avoids a collision, somehow managing to smack the puck away.

Yuuri’s entire bench roars. In that moment, he feels validated. They cheer for him like he’s just made some great play while in reality it was really just dumb luck.

The other team’s defender has the puck behind his own net. Yuuri figures he’ll go challenge him as he starts carrying it up the ice.

“Really Katsuki? That’s the face you’re gonna go with today?” the slightly bigger guy asks. Yuuri ignores him and the arena fills with the sound of hockey sticks hitting solid ice.

The defender tries to deke around Yuuri – well, okay, he successfully fakes Yuuri out and blows past him – but he forgets one thing: the puck.

The puck sits right in front of the net. Yuuri just takes a swing, and it slides to the far left side of the net, clangs off the post and rolls in. It’s a fluke and Yuuri realises that it took the other team’s defender playing like a holy dumbass for him to score, but it still felt pretty good to send that puck in the net.

“Yes losers! Katsuki you fucking legend, yes lad!” Kaito high-fives him as he glides past.

Jimmy adds, “Well done man. Just makes me want to punch your wholesome face.”

Unfortunately now the other team has possession of the puck, sending them on another collision course with the brick wall that is the other teams captain.

Once again, the team comes out flying. They're a great puck-possession team and whoever controls the puck most often will usually win the game. A smart forward might try for an easy goal by angling his shot off the boards and when a loose puck is captured on the inside corner of your stick you need to act fast. So, as soon as the puck hits your stick, you can launch an extremely angled shot and surprise your opponent.

The first five minutes sees more of the same, however, all of their great chances bounce around in the crease before the Captain smothers the puck.

Then, finally, they get the him off their back thanks to Jimmy who manages to bury a shot from the slot. They score again a few minutes later, and realise that they just might have a chance... But the other team comes right back with two goals of their own in the third period.

Then, with the final period winding down, his line hops over the boards and he goes right to his favourite spot on the ice.

Kaito now calls it the “Yuuri spot” — it’s about three feet to the right of the crease. He's learned that defenders only really try to push him out of the way if he's right in front of the crease, so he now stands just to the right of it, and people seem to not notice him. Maybe it is because he's short.

But anyway, Martin gets the puck into the crease, and the defender misses it on his covering attempt from the left side. It squires right to Yuuri's stick and he takes a swing. Out of nowhere, the defender comes in and blocks Yuuri's shot with his skate.

"Of course,” Yuuri mutters.

But he takes one more whack at it, and the puck slips behind the defender and into the net.

The audience goes wild! Chirping his name over and over again. 

That one felt really good, and Yuuri thinks it might hold up as the game-winner. But, they give up a goal towards the end of the first ten minutes of the third period. The atmosphere is considerably cool as the game progresses.

Then, with about 5 minutes remaining, Yuuri helps cause more havoc in the crease and his linemate Kaito swoops in and buries a fifth goal to give them the win.

Dan chants, "We did it boys! It was ugly but we did it!"

"That last period there significantly aged me," Kaito laughs and accepts a round of fist bumps from everyone.

"Ten years were definitely added in those last five minutes," Yuuri agrees, knocking his knuckles against Kaito's in friendly congratulations.

"Gonna be old veterans by the end of this season!" Leon says.

"To be a veteran you'd have to be experienced dumbass," Martin says, "but yeah I feel that."

"Oh you're an experienced dumbass alright," Leon says, "you specialise in dumbass." And Martin knocks his stick across his head in friendly banter.

Yuuri is fairly bemused how they've gone from a couple of ragtags in oversized jerseys to an actual team - an actual family almost. And although they're still only competing in a couple of high school varsity AAA leagues, it still feels major to them.

What the team lacks in talent, they make up for in personalities.

They are all bright, cheerful and even loud people. The team frequently start chants on the bench. And whenever their players make even the most mundane plays, they all stand up and cheer. You can just tell that they're very good friends off the ice, and they support each other more than any other team on the ice.

Many a time, Kaito has told him, _“We may not always win, but we have the most fun,”_ and there’s really no denying that.

Was there really a place for him among these people?

Kaito with his Hero Hair. Jimmy, with his magnetism. Dan and his leadership. Leon with his jokes. Martin and Liam with their ferocity – but hearts of potted gold.

Could he allow himself to just enjoy it while lasted?

… That’s the thing about happiness.

It’s never made to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't remember your screen freezing from a relentless nudge spammer on MSN (or being the psychotic nudger who gets told they can no longer send more nudges) you're either a lot younger or a lot older than me. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Olympics next chapter?**
> 
>  
> 
> \- 'Miracle on Ice' most sports fans already know. If you wanna know more there's movie adaptations ([Miracle](https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/miracle/)) and [here's](http://www.ushockeyhalloffame.com/page/show/831562-the-1980-u-s-olympic-team) extra info but in summary: During the Cold War a US college hockey team won against the USSR at the Olympics  
> \- if you happen to be affected by loss/grief/any crisis (including feeling low or insecure), you're never alone:  
> . US and U.K. [hotlines](https://psychcentral.com/lib/telephone-hotlines-and-help-lines/)  
> . And here's some international [help](http://www.befrienders.org)


	3. That's No Way to Kill a Rumour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vancouver 2010 Olympics

**r/DetroitWolves**

u/nicktheman • 8h • COL-NHL

 **GAME THREAD: DETROIT WOLVES @ CO** **LORADO LANDSLIDE | STADIUM SERIES - 6 PM MST**

[stadium series]

Keeping this short for the mobile users

  
⇧ 323 ⇩ |  4.2k comments | ➮ Share

 

Best comments ⌄

 

 **WaddlesMcgruff** • 6h

Katsuki is 18, playing in the NHL and looks amazing doing it. I'm 24, sitting on my couch, drinking too many beers, thinking about how I haven't been the gym in a week

  
••• ⇧ 408

 

 **Cowardlydodge** • 6h

Sanders - "GET REKT LANDSLIDE, FUCK OUTTA HERE"

••• ⇧ 298

 

 

 **Hokkeypokkey** • 6h

Lmao katsuki with the "please for the love of god fucking stop" face

••• ⇧ 267

   | **rewdwolves** • 2h

      Kids a champ!

••• ⇧ Vote

 

 **Hendrixxx** • 5h

Should he have blown the whistle at all? They should have made them change side with the play still live. At 10 min mark ref yells "TRADE TRADE" each goalie runs to defend the other goal while puck is still live

••• ⇧ 123

    | **ubley** • 4h

       I didn't realise how bad I wanted that until you said it

••• ⇧ 30

        | **m45789** • 2h

          Since the puck would have then been in our attacking zone, I'm all for this

••• ⇧ 7

             | **juniorbrutalis** • 2h

                It gives a whole new meaning to the line change on the fly.

••• ⇧ 2

                  | **mudcrabs_beware** • 1h

                  No they should just design the future outdoor rinks on a carousel that spin 180° at the 10 minute mark without stoppage in play

••• ⇧ -5

 **notreallyacrab** • 7h

Fuck the Lanslide!

••• ⇧ 78

    | **Z_awzoo** • 7h

      And fuck the Bears!

••• ⇧ 12

       | **bellzier** • 6h

          Fuck the Penguins while we're at it!

••• ⇧ 9

          | **wolvesway** • 5h

              Can't forget the Hawks!

••• ⇧ 5

            | **DodgersRlyfe** • 5h

               HAHA YEAH BUT FUCK THE FIGURE SKATERS AMIRITE

••• ⇧ 94

              | **Reallyreallywolfy** • 4h

                   ALWAYS FUCK THE FIGURE SKATERS!

••• ⇧ 50

                    | **Ronburgeds** • 4h

                        especially fuck the figure skaters!

••• ⇧ 23

                        | **Hulllipo23** • 3h

                              There we go.

••• ⇧ 2

                        | 1 MORE REPLY

| **Markusareaus** • 6h

And also fuck the Canadians! Because why not have a solid fuck everyone.

••• ⇧ 14

   | **Toomuchtime** • 3h

     probably an unpopular opinion right now but can we say fuck Katsuki for making it such a nail biter?

••• ⇧ 2

       | **Mrmojo1976** • 3h

           I'm on board with that. Jesusssssssssssssssss

••• ⇧ 1

            | **tomlubes** • 2h

                  Sweet knuckle-dragging Christ I nearly had an aneurysm when Katsuki did that.

••• ⇧ 19

* * *

Nothing fuels an event like common feeling.

New Year Eve's or the Fourth of July are far more exciting than any given usual get-together. Infused with a united spirit, everyone gets invested towards a common goal. In this case, it’s supporting Team USA.

The Winter Olympics are one of those things that hop around once every four years and, although not as interesting as playoffs, bring with them the spirit of healthy rivalry. The excitement creates a thick, tangible buzz throughout the athletes and fans. It’s the baseline that leads the rhythm of cheers, accented by the percussion of clinking pop – not soda – cans and solos of applause.

He shouldn’t be standing here.

During his last game, Yuuri fucked up big time. He knows he of all people shouldn’t have been picked to represent Team USA this year.

He’s not ready – but it’s too late to back out now.

Canada is hosting the 2010 Winter Games and the thought of shuffling back between Michigan and Vancouver without getting anywhere is already giving Yuuri a state-splitting headache.

 

.

 

>   
>  **Smackdown on Ice: Figure Skating vs. Hockey**  
>  [Paramount/Everett Collection]
> 
> _On Sunday night in Vancouver, both hockey and figure skating are holding big Olympic events. For skating, it’s the original dance competition; for hockey, it’s a U.S. vs. Canada matchup._
> 
> There might be a little bit of conflict going on around town these days, with the two kinds of athletes here at Olympic Stadium. Because of other events at the arena, Teams often practice at the Civic Auditorium, but that is also being used by rival countries. To avoid pre-game fights, some hockey teams are working out this week at the largest arena, where the speed skaters and — yes, more figure skaters — are using the two rinks there.
> 
> An unnamed source (from Alberta) grew up figure skating, but later, because of injuries, gave it up and played hockey in high school and at the club level in college. She now coaches skills development to local hockey players. She's gotten concussions while competing in both sports, but has no doubt which is more dangerous.
> 
> That would be the one in which — at 5-foot-7 and 110 pounds — she was one of the taller participants.
> 
> “Figure skaters are moving at incredible speed and lobbing their bodies into the air while wearing tights and a lycra dress,” she said. “At least hockey players are wearing pads.”
> 
> Hockey players beg to differ.
> 
> While fighting isn't allowed in the college game, there's still plenty of rough stuff to go around, and a level of angst is always brewing just above the surface of the ice.
> 
> And then there's a certain piece of rubber sailing around the rink at high speeds, and players are often expected to get whatever body part necessary in front of said puck to prevent it from getting to the goal. In this world skates the likes of Grant Davis, a 6-foot-3, 211-pound defenseman who is more than willing to make the physical plays necessary.
> 
> Still, there's a certain grace in some players smooth skating style, honed from youth in hockey-crazed and climate-cooperative areas.
> 
> “You just grow up skating,” Yuuri Katsuki, the 18-year-old Wolves player, said. “It was always just like walking.”
> 
> While many other college hockey players have choppier strides, Katsuki is one who seems to glide while handling the puck despite the chaos around him. He seamlessly transitions forward and then backward as necessary.
> 
> But, no, there's no figure skating in Katsuki's future.
> 
> This isn't “The Cutting Edge,” the 1992 movie in which a male hockey star retired because of injury only to seek Olympic glory as a figure skater paired with a prima donna partner.
> 
> “Never have and never would,” Katsuki said of figure skating. “Kind of frowned upon.”
> 
> Oh, sure, there's some biases when hockey players talk about figure skaters, and the other way around, too.
> 
> Said Katsuki of figure skating: “It's more like a dance, not really a sport, is it?”
> 
> Viktor Nikiforov, the 22-year-old skating Champion, remarked: “No sport requires more strength or agility than figure skating. A skater coming out of a quadruple turn absorbs seven to eight times his body weight in his landing leg. There's no argument which is tougher."
> 
> **… Read full story**

.

  
Media has the best timing.

Like releasing that interview just before the Olympics.

It’s the reason Yuuri has been getting dirty looks from skaters and skating enthusiasts in the Olympic Village dining hall.

**New text from Phichit:**

_How dare you_

**New text from Phichit:**

_What were you thinking?_

Yuuri replies: _If Figure Skating is a sport, then so is all forms of dancing. When sports metrics rely on artistic elements and their outcome is solely determined by judges, its not a sport. Ballerinas work very hard and are athletes in every way. It requires a high level of skill and determination too but ballet is not in the Olympics!!_

**New text from Phichit:**

_Maybe so_

**New text from Phichit:**

_But you’re still an asshole_

Yuuri knows Phichit doesn’t mean it.

He says: _figure skaters don't do their thing while some 220 lb. moron is trying to take their heads off_

**New text from Phichit:**

_Tumblr hates you right now_

Yuuri texts back: _I think half the OLYMPIANS at the ice rink hate me right now_

**New text from Phichit:**

_lol u mess_

Yuuri texts back: _that interviewer was Rita Skeeter OK_

**New text from Phichit:**

_I want to be mad at you but I’m too proud of that reference_

Yuuri reluctantly grins and slides his phone back into his pocket. Taking Phichit’s heads-up for what it really is. A warning. Yuuri will not be browsing Tumblr, or Twitter or lurking anywhere on social media for a little while.

He wasn’t joking with Phichit – that journalist just wanted one thing: a story. He understands, writers have got to sensationalise things sometimes to sell issues – to make money, to eat. He just wishes he hadn’t of taken the interview at all – Yuuri has no real issue with skaters, there’s some good and some bad just like with everything.

The Olympics are figure skating’s big show. Once every four years, the general public actually pays attention to the sport.

Hockey fans are the Redditors, missing teeth and fighting outside the stadium.

Figure skating fans are the Tumblr fan accounts, soft plushies and Twitterverse discourse.

It’s nothing new. They avoid each other where possible and tolerate each other when they can’t.

Thompson, a guy with more hair on his chin than head, says, “If you don't make at least one gay joke to the male figure skaters and one sex joke to the females leaving the ice, you're doing it wrong.”

Here’s how it is: Kids who move away from home to play junior hockey at sixteen or seventeen are impressionable.

If they don’t encounter a good role model, the seeds are sown for a person, who after trying to fit in, think it’s OK to drink, treat women a certain way and use homosexuality as a punchline. Yuuri can’t count the amount of times he's heard phrases like: _That’s gay_ or _what a homo_ in the dressing room over the course of his hockey career. English is the international language of trash talk and no matter what country you come from, the default zinger is to always, _always_ accuse your opponent of being a homo.

Words like fag, pussy, and bitch are part of the daily banter. Words used to belittle players, to weaken and feminise them, because hockey is hyper-masculine, meant for the manliest of men. It is in the nature of the game to be aggressive, defensive and assertive. It isn’t seen as an arena or sport in which homosexuals can be found – for it is too tough and mean to seemingly co-inside with people’s stereotypes of gays being weak, scrawny, feminine and fairy-esque.

This part of Yuuri’s story began back in in eighth grade. He was sitting at his desk when one of his best friends, Kaito, came over to him. _‘Hey dude did you see that girl?’ ‘No,’_ Yuuri had responded _. ‘I think I have a crush on her,’_ Kaito said. _‘I think I have a crush on you,’_ Yuuri thought.

This is how he’s lived the first eighteen years of his life. It’s never seemed normal to be attracted to classmates of the same-sex but he was attracted, and the term gay never crossed his mind.

He's never… It really took that epiphany when he transferred from youth hockey to high school hockey of realising, _“Oh, is this word actually me?”_ And before that epiphany, it’s been just a word. A word that didn’t have any true meaning to him until he realised, _"This is who I am. This is what I’m attracted to.”_ And so, he thinks, realistically, the daily banter didn’t offend him at all. He didn’t think twice of hearing it; quite a few times he didn’t think twice of saying it, until he had that realisation.

His teammates contain parts which he never asked to be attracted to – in the locker room he sees them anyway. The sights only do one thing for him, confirming what he finds sexually attractive: men.

“Oh but that one is _fine_!" one of the older guys hoots, "come to Puck Daddy.”

“Puck daddy?” another guy rolls his eyes and follows the veterans gaze. “Oh no. You don’t want to tap that, she's Russian."

“So?”

“For real? You're Team USA...”

“Yet again, so? Hate sex is the best!”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. Real reasons to hate someone are few and far between. It is completely ridiculous to hate someone because of their ethnicity and even more ridiculous to have sex with someone you dislike.

“One problem with that: You're a loser. Your sexual experience is limited to touching your own dick.”

Another guys stops skating in circles and claps the other on the back, “Clark hates himself, that's gotta count.”

“Fuck off. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna fuck her.” Several loud guffaws follow this pronouncement.

“Such a noble quest.”

“Good luck with that one. She looks high maintenance.”

On the ice, a pretty brunette is practicing her triple salchow. She _does_ look 'high maintenance'. Rory’s chances of successfully bedding her are slim.

Yuuri gives the goalie a sympathetic glance as he bumbles over to her as she’s making her way off the ice and immediately looks away in second hand embarrassment as Rory gives her his signature 'suggestive eyebrows'.

Everyone has told him before that they don't work on people with IQs higher than 2.

 _Ouch._  A resounding slap echoes through the rink as the svelte skater slaps Rory across the face within the first seven seconds of him opening his mouth.

“Told him so,” The blonde guy says, taking a swig of his water bottle. "Best to go for the skiers, much easier lays than those skating princesses." 

The rink is fuller than Yuuri imagined. He expected more people to be out and blowing off some steam or checking out the area. Then again, he guesses the whole ‘one-giant orgy’ whispers he’s heard about the Olympics haven’t exactly been unfounded either. It was another article by that one Rita Skeeter-like woman, documenting _‘Just how much sex do Olympians have?’_. The answer would be enough that sex on the roof of the hotel is now banned.

At the 2000 Sydney Games, 70,000 condoms weren’t enough, prompting a second order of 20,000 and a new standing order of 100,000 condoms per Olympics.

After being here for a few days, Yuuri can see why. The dining hall in Olympic Village is like a high-school cafeteria – except everyone is beautiful. Unlike at a bar, it's not awkward to strike up a conversation because you have something in common. It starts with, _'What sport do you play?'_ And all of a sudden, you're fist-bumping.

The figure skaters are a bit of an exception. While curfews aren’t imposed on all athletes, the skaters are usually the group with the strictest coaches who impose personal curfews.

“That’s got to be a new record for him,” Yuuri replies. _Seven seconds..._

The guys shakes his head. He says, “You underestimate how many times he pulls this sort of crap.”

“And how many times he’s rejected,” the ginger guy next to him adds.

Yuuri’s team has already been in the same perimeter as the other athletes for three days. The reception has been… frosty on the ice but heated elsewhere.

The games begin as soon as teams move in a week or so before opening ceremonies. It's like the first day of college, you're nervous, super excited. Everyone's meeting people and trying to hook up with someone. Which is perfectly understandable, if not to be expected. Olympians are young, supremely healthy people who've been training with the intensity of combat troops for years. Suddenly they're released into a cocoon where prying reporters and overprotective parents aren't allowed. Pre-competition testosterone is running high.

• 17 days of Olympic Games events  
• 2566 athletes  
• 82 participating countries  
• 10,000 media representatives  
• 3 billion television viewers worldwide

The only issue is that all of Team USA are arrogant – often without reason – and this can cause… _friction._ Some good, some bad.

Right off the bat there’s a bit of a pre-established atmosphere between skaters and hockey players. Back in 1920 the managers of Antwerp's Palais de Glace stadium refused to allow their building to be used for figure skating unless ice hockey was included in the Olympic games. Long story short: hockey won – was included in the tournament and ever since, each generation of figure skaters have never liked sharing the ice.

A couple of alpine skiers giggle to each other from the rink side, “Oh my god have you seen him yet?”

“No but I want him to have my children.”

“Who?”

“Viktor Nikiforov of course.”

_Viktor Nikiforov._

_What the hell?_ Yuuri completely forgot about the possibility of him being here. And after the article there was a possibility that he knew who Yuuri was...

This is his worst nightmare, he realises, starting to panic. He’s never actually thought about meeting the guy that, up until age sixteen, Yuuko had still jokingly linked him tentacle porn to.

(And he’d got off on).

He tries his best not too show too much interest in what the ski group is saying, but he feels like he’s probably projecting a bat signal indicating his distress.

“Oh please! He couldn’t be more gay. Tommy, you have a shot!”

The guy – presumably Tommy – laughs, “I’ll look for him on Grindr.”

“There’s a small problem there. Grindr crashed two days ago.”

The group chuckle amongst themselves but Yuuri’s attention has already been caught.

Hook, line, and sinker.

He unwittingly spends the day looking for the skater, hating himself for it, but looking anyway.

Yuuri gives up around midday. There’s far too many people out on the ice.

He relaxes a little. What was he thinking anyway? There’s no way he’d just randomly run into the Russian skater just because they’re competing and training at the same venue.

* * *

To the untrained eye, a skater just transforms into a spinning blur for a few nanoseconds, and then lands (or doesn't) while the audience holds their breath. Yuuri realistically knows that hours, weeks, months and years of work all come down to a few minutes on the ice and it takes a lot to get here.

At his level of hockey, it’s all about speed. Emphasis on combining every aspect of the game at top speed. Working on battling with and without the puck. Faster starts and stops. Getting from point A to B and then back again as fast as you can.

Yuuri is talented, and skilled enough, and he just understands how his body moves and needs to move during play.

“King of the skating fairies is here,” Rory huffs when Yuuri is finishing up his last few laps on the ice.

 _What?_ His head does a full exorcist turn to look at the goalie.

“What?” Yuuri questions out loud. He isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. Air gets trapped on the way to his lungs and he’s surviving solely off the growing realisation that this just kept getting worse for his sanity. He’s going to have one of those anxiety attacks – one of the ones his therapist warned him were possible, isn’t he?

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Yakov Feltsman, a balding skating coach, gruffly announces.

This is the first time he sees him in person. Yuuri tries to quell any childhood feelings of excitement from bubbling over and exposing him for the fanboy he is – _was_.

He still can’t breathe.

Viktor has grown. A lot.

Thick, hard muscle everywhere. Not the kind that was too much and made him look like a body builder. Just enough to suggest that it was a body that was used to hard work. A body that said he took care of himself. A body that suggested that to be intimate with him would be a life-altering event.

Yuuri is decidedly not thinking about that. _He's not._

To be fair to himself, he can't help it. He's an eighteen-year-old boy.

Their eyes connect – it’s only for a second, but to him, it feels like he’s suspended in eternity. Viktor’s eyes are a sky blue, the pupil centred with the faintest lavender. His nose is thin, the tip slightly tilted upward. His lips are small and thin, but puckered and dainty.

Is this what love at first sight is like? If it is, it's sorely misrepresented in every piece of literature he's ever read. Yuuri was told it would be a good thing – not like a ‘Hi, can I please just stare, terrifyingly, at your perfect face, please?’.

Viktor gives him a movie-star smile and Yuuri smiles back, a crooked attempt like some hellish, broken marionette. A parody of Viktor's smile that makes him flush deep with shame – what is he doing? But, like a deer caught in a set of headlights, Yuuri is trapped.

It’s not fair. People shouldn’t look like this in real life.

The rest of the time on the ice Yuuri tries his very best to avoid stealing looks Viktor's way. There are moments, however, when averted glances become the same as stares and by the time he’s on his way to the locker room, it’s really no surprise that he’s gained a plus one.

“Want some help?”

An innocent request. Perhaps from someone else... perhaps. His eyes are bright and hopeful, hair carelessly covering one eye. He means no harm.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri answers, “I’ve got it.”

The ice skater frowns, “It looks heavy.”

It looks heavy because it is heavy. Very heavy. So heavy in fact that Yuuri can’t be dealing with this conversation right now.

“I’m fine,” he insists, just a little harsher.

Viktor smiles, “I know but I’d still like to help you.” He reaches an arm out and Yuuri backs away, afraid of what his hands might feel like.

“Really. It's okay.”

Viktor ignores him and helps him carry some of his equipment back into the locker room and lays it on the bench. When everything is packed away, Viktor shoots him a triumphant- if not a little smug - look.

It takes Yuuri a moment to come to his senses - to comprehend everything – to lean back, catalogue and assess the damage done to his cerebral cortex. Upon closer inspection, no, he has not burnt the ability to comprehend anything other than Viktor from his mind – it just feels like he has.

They’re walking in the spaces between words and Yuuri doesn’t like it one bit. It feels too dangerous. He just shakes his head and walks away, trying to hide the tenseness in his shoulders and other places unseen. Of course, Viktor Nikiforov would have to be a nice figure skater. Of fucking course.

It’s OK, he just needs to walk it off. This part is true at least.

“Viktor?” the man with two-toned hair from earlier calls, “What are you doing?”

“Chris – just wait a minute.”

“Who’s this?” Chris asks, gesturing to Yuuri.

“Leaving,” Yuuri squeaks.

“American hockey players now?” Chris says knowingly. “Cute.”

“Hockey player,” Viktor corrects, “just the one.”

“You’re scouting for a new boy toy?” Chris pouts, “and here I thought I was special.”

“No –“ Yuuri says suddenly, defences going up, “I’m not like _that_.”

“I see,” Chris mulls, “this one is skittish as a rabbit, you might want to look elsewhere Viktor. He looks younger than me.”

Yuuri’s feels his defences go up a little. He’s not sure but he feels as if this figure skater is questioning his eligibility to compete. It’s a bit of a sore subject – a topic already thrown about jokingly in the locker room about the rookie putting the rest of the team at a disadvantage.

In hockey, eighteen is the minimum age on Men's competition without special allowance. Per IIHF statutes and bylaws, players younger than that need to acquire an IIHF underage waiver.

“I’m not underage.”

“Of course,” a Cheshire-cat-like grin takes over Chris’ face, “it’s the Chinese gymnasts who you have to be wary of for that sort of thing.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything to that, there’s nothing to say. While it _is_ true – it’s still not a very sportsmanlike remark to make.

“You’ll have to excuse Christophe,” Viktor interrupts, “he’s a bit of a gossip.”

Yuuri finds himself nodding because he sure knows what that’s like. Phichit is his best friend, is wonderful – but he’s also not allowed to know 75% of what happens in Yuuri’s life for a reason. The Thai skater can’t stay tight lipped about his Instagram follower count, let alone Yuuri’s upmost secrets.

“Wait!” Chris pulls his phone out, “I thought you looked familiar – you’re friends with @phichit+chu.”

 _Oh no_. Yuuri prefers to avoid looking at Phichit’s Instagram. The duo had a bit of a rivalry when Yuuri first moved in to the dorms because of the whole hockey vs figure skating thing… though they soon became besties. However, there’s still incriminating evidence of their prank war for the world to see if you are creepy enough to scroll far enough down his feed.

Phichit is a special kind of asshole like that.

Chris flashes a photo of Yuuri asleep with three hamsters on his head, captioned #residenthamstermom.

Yuuri lets out a sigh of relief. That’s not so bad… there’s far worse pictures of him lurking around on there. Yuuri still grimaces when he sees the amount of likes it has. Friends with Phichit is a bit of a stretch at this point.

Looking at a more recent post, an image of Phichit melodramatically scowling at an article, Chris seems to come to an even more fascinating discovery. “You’re Yuuri Katsuki. You’re the one who said skating isn’t a sport,” he laughs, “there’s a small blonde Russian ready to fight you back in St, Petersburg as well as a few takers in my team.”

Worst case scenario has happened. Abort. Abort. Abort.

“Article?” Viktor asks.

“The interview you gave,” Chris reminds him, “it was the talk of the dinner table two nights ago.”

“Which one?”

“Which one?” Chris repeats and then laughs, “the one about some so-called rivalry between hockey and figure skating. Journalists are awfully over the top. You’d think we hated each other from the way she went on.”

Viktor turns to Yuuri, eyebrows knitted together in quiet confusion. “You’re not a fan then?”

“A fan?” Yuuri repeats. _Also, stop looking at me with your stupidly perfect face,_ he thinks.

“Of skating?” Viktor affirms, “You were looking at me today. I just thought –“

Yuuri internally cringes, “Uh, no.”

“Oh,” Viktor replies, a hurt expression briefly coating his face, “my mistake.”

Yuuri shifts his weight onto one foot and then the other. “I need to get going,” he says, swinging his sports bag onto his shoulder.

Viktor steps back, giving him some room, “Right. Of course.”

Yuuri starts walking away, mentally berating himself for messing this up, when he feels someone gently knock against his shoulder. Viktor is still there.

“Not an invitation.” Yuuri clarifies, putting some space between them. He can’t be seen with Viktor Nikiforov. He might as well paint a rainbow on his face and start wearing pink skate guards with matching pink eyeliner – _never_ in his life will he _ever._

“Let him go. Some hockey players really don’t like people like us Viktor.”

People like them? Skaters or gays?

Yuuri’s not homophobic. 

His teammates on the other hand? Very much so.

Viktor butts in, “Chris, you know how when you’re younger and you’re told to keep your hands and feet to yourself? Sometimes you should do that with your thoughts.”

Chris gives Viktor a look that Yuuri can only translate as when-have-I-ever-kept-my-hands-to-myself? 

“It’s just funny how skating isn’t a sport but apparently grown men beating each other over a piece of rubber is,” Chris says.

“Chris that’s not fair. Even if hockey isn’t as athletic as skating, it’s more than that.”

Yuuri looks at two skaters incredulously. Skating backwards full-speed on one skate, then leaping, doing a 360 and landing back on that one blade going backwards, isn't as athletic as figure skating? What a short-sighted view of ice hockey. The best hockey players see the entire ice, all the players on it, while skating forwards or backwards while handling a puck with a stick and expecting a bone-crushing hit at any second.

Sorry, he’s not impressed.

All figure skaters must worry about is themselves; hockey players worry about their teammates.

Yuuri isn’t usually confrontational so he surprises himself when he says: “Brain surgery is harder than hockey too. Doesn't mean it belongs in the Olympics.”

Chris looks mildly impressed but drawls, “At least figure skaters don't get into endless brawling fistfights.”

“Yeah, they just have their boyfriends club their competitors in the knee," Yuuri replies - thinking back to the Nancy Kerrigan attack which happened in his hometown. Tonya Harding, one of Kerrigan's chief rivals for a place on the U.S. Figure Skating Team, organised the attack.

Poetic justice was served when, at the Olympics, the competition between Harding and Kerrigan set ratings records. Harding's performance was a drama in itself. She broke down crying after a lace on her skates broke. Even after being allowed a restart, Harding wasn't able to pull herself together and finished eighth. Kerrigan took home the silver medal, and many thought she deserved the gold...

Yet another reason why Yuuri's glad he stopped skating.

It’s a low blow for sure but it does the job. Viktor and Chris fall silent and Yuuri takes that as his cue to leave while he still has the last word.

* * *

Yuuri manages to make it to the elevator without embarrassing himself further but one of his teammates picks up on his bad mood as he enters the TV lounge.

The Olympic Village is a boisterous city within a city: chock-full of condos, midrises and houses as well as cafés, lounges, a 24-hour McDonald’s that gives out thousands of chicken nuggets per day in the dining hall (which happens to be the length of two football fields), nightclubs (some of which give out free drinks), etc. The only thing missing is privacy - nearly everyone is stuck with a roommate or sharing a house with teammates.

“What’s wrong?”

“Figure skaters,” Yuuri mutters.

“Ah, the icewreckers.”

“Icewreckers?”

“You haven’t noticed? They’re always toe pick massacring the ice sheet.”

“I’ve noticed,” Yuuri mutters, “it’s not that though. It’s just how they are.”

“In full disclosure, I played hockey in College. We had to show up at the ice rink in the middle of the night because all the prime time was taken up by the prima donna figure skaters.”

Yuuri laughs, he’s experienced that sort of thing before at both high school and college.

Another one of the guys speaks up, “Most of those skaters are cream puffs and wouldn't last a shift of real hockey. I’ll take hitting the ice over losing my teeth to a puck, stick or punch, or worse yet being boarded with my head being compacted into my spine.”

“I am just old enough to remember the old ‘Russian judge’ jokes of the Olympics back in the day when judges would put up ridiculous scores based solely on the country of the participant. For anyone that doesn't think that type of bias still happens in subjective competitions, watch an episode of Dance Moms.”

Is this some kind of universal truth? That hockey players and figure skaters will always clash, no matter where you come from?

“If you want a non-biased metric to measure toughness. Compare the medical records between a hockey player and figure skater. That should be eye opening,” says the ginger left winger.

Apparently so, because the bashing of their skating rivals continues.

“Right? Let’s see them figure skate with a stick in their hands and several players trying to check them into the boards while they’re trying to do their routine. Then we’ll talk!”

High sticking, tripping, slashing, spearing, charging, hooking, fighting, unsportsmanlike conduct, interference, bleeding, roughing… it’s true skaters don’t have to deal with this.

Yuuri feels a little better for defending himself and sees no sign of Viktor for the rest of the day – thankfully. Time crawls, as if Viktor's existence has hobbled his ability to pass through the fabric of space and time like a regular human being. Everything seems to move at half speed, the world around him stuttering and jamming, grinding and grimacing, jarring, all clogged up, like an old VHS, with entropy and dust.

Yuuri spends some time thinking. Or, more accurately, spends some time sitting on his bed repeating some combination of the words _what the fuck_ and _oh my god_ to himself, under his breath, for quite some time. Yuuri would say at least an hour, hour and a half. By the time he comes to his senses, knowing he didn’t train nearly half-hard enough today, and gets to his feet, gingerly checking himself in the mirror before leaving – it’s early evening.

He steps outside, the automatic doors to the Olympic Village mid-rise closing behind him, turning to walk the familiar path to the rink when he crashes into a wall. He stumbles backwards and almost hits the ground when said wall's arms shoot out to catch him. Yuuri feels himself being pulled upwards, looks up and meets a pair of familiar sky-painted eyes.

Okay, not a wall.

“Hello again.”

Is this going to be a regular thing?

Yuuri sure hopes not because Viktor should come with a warning label.

Yuuri feels himself sink into the snow, down through the cracks and runways of the sidewalk, off into the gutters to mingle with the dirt and the melting snow. He isn’t ready. Yuuri isn’t prepared. He's not thought about meeting and conversing with Viktor Nikiforov again at all.

If anything, he’s thought about anything _but_ dealing with Viktor Nikiforov and all of his ridiculousness.

Silence stretches between them and Yuuri feels Viktor let him go. Pulling back, looking at his face and giving Yuuri one of his annoyingly flashy smiles which haven't got any less heart-stopping from the cover of _SkatingWeekly_ to real life.

Huh, funny – maybe the reason Yuuri liked those magazines so much when he was younger was because his body was consciously thinking of men before he was.

“I don’t think we were introduced earlier. Viktor Nikiforov,” he says, holding out a hand and a smile.

Yuuri eyes his hand but doesn’t take it. Viktor is the main attraction, he is just the receiving device and there’s the overarching atmosphere from their earlier encounter, forcing Yuuri’s lips into a straight line – a clear indication of his distrust.

Viktor continues, “Sorry about Chris. He was just poking fun. He said you look cute when you’re angry.”

“It’s fine,” Yuuri almost splutters. _It’s not fine,_ he thinks but now, to make matters worse, the corners of Viktor’s eyes crinkle up endearingly. Yuuri hopes his mouth isn’t hanging open and mentally checks. Good. Mouth closed.

Count, he reminds himself. Counting helps.

One.

Two.

He might throw up.

“Is that all?” Yuuri asks on the count of three. His voice comes out more even than he thought it might, and Yuuri is happy to take those small victories away from this conversation. When Viktor doesn't say anything he adds, "You didn't have to come all this way to apologise."

Viktor puts his hands up, “I’m just heading in the same direction.”

Yuuri looks up to the sky and wants to curse God like he imagined his old coach would. This is going to be a long two weeks and this is decidedly  _not_ what he signed up for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me on tumblr you'll know why this is late, if not I won't bore you with whys and will just say thanks for sticking around and reading!
> 
> Sometimes I love research:
> 
> \- ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) outdoor sex is actually banned at the Olympics   
> \- most little bits of info are facts  
> \- the Harding and Kerrigan thing is real   
> \- Fun fact: 100,000 condoms were distributed during the 2010 Vancouver Games and guess what? THEY RAN OUT. [source](https://www.google.co.uk/amp/s/www.today.com/amp/news/cold-days-hot-nights-olympic-village-secrets-wbna35439222)
> 
> Any errors, as always, are my own


	4. Colder than Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Kykie, my forever girl, without her this chapter would not be done (she's constantly kicking my ass on tumblr, surprisingly a super effective way to get me to write)

The Olympic Village is quiet as the duo walks through it, heading for the ice rink. Partly because it's still early in the week and many of the athletes haven’t bothered to arrive yet, with the Opening Ceremony still days away. And partly because of how late it is. 

Those partying are hitting the bars, and the parties in the Village haven't cranked up to full capacity just yet.

Yuuri's sure by the time he gets back to his suite it'll probably be overrun with giggling girls, light beer, closed doors and the odd spliff.

He doesn't partake in any of those activities himself... usually... (though sometimes he'll join in one or another to avoid seeming weird or just to reduce his anxiety) but he doesn’t condemn that behaviour either. 

If people want to mess about after working so hard to get here, that’s their business. Not his.

The entrance to the ice rink isn’t locked, and Yuuri doesn't bother to check if Viktor is following him as he moves through the training rooms and then out to the ice. The lights are on, illuminating the white oval. Yuuri takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar cold, sharp air before he holds onto the boards and ties up his skates.

[Music](https://youtu.be/x0qT2SfuCK0) suddenly flares out from the speakers, something sharp and melancholy and haunting. Yuuri looks up from the boards to see Viktor, changed out of his thick winter coat and into an all-black training ensemble, taking centre ice.

He sighs. A deep sigh. Yuuri sees how this is going to go. Just like always, the figure skater is going to prioritise their own ice time. Figures. He doesn't know why he expected Viktor to be any different.

“Well, come on,” Viktor says, pausing his music so that silence falls over the rink and Yuuri can hear him clearly.

“What?”

“Skating,” Viktor clarifies. “Didn’t you come here to skate?”

Yuuri narrows his eyes, looking curiously from the ice, to Viktor, and back. Viktor is going to share his ice time? Scratch that. Viktor is willing to share his ice time?

“I did,” Yuuri replies.

 _I just didn't think you'd let me,_  he thinks.

Viktor looks at him expectantly and Yuuri only hesitates slightly before heading onto the ice. He almost says, 'thank you' before realising that would be ridiculous.

He has just as much right to this practice time as Viktor does.

Viktor doesn't ask him anything further, keeping respectfully to his side of the rink and launching himself into jump after jump. Every time Yuuri looks up he's gracefully flying like some kind of gravity defying ballerina.

Yuuri digs his blades into the ice, refusing to be impressed, but he can feel himself slipping. Viktor demands attention, Yuuri can’t help but stop his own lap around the ice to watch him for a moment.

Yuuri almost lets out a bark of laughter when he realises something. He's skating on the same ice as Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuuri shakes his head, testing it out. His conclusion is that his ten-year-old self had wildly unrealistic expectations of how satisfying this would feel. 

"Are you always so quiet?” Viktor calls from across the rink.

The distance is too far between them for any substantial conversation. Viktor tries to get closer, to see whatever Yuuri's working on. Yuuri tries not to scowl.

To answer Viktor's question: _Yes_. He is always this quiet.

Other people can't understand it. They always say things like:

_“Being social is easy, just talk to people!”_

_“You've got to learn to relax, you're always so stressed out!”_

And, his personal favourite, _“When is this going to stop?”_ as if being introverted is something he wants to be, a choice he’s making. As if he can just turn it off.

He bites his lip, stopping himself from saying something more scathing than: “When I'm practicing. Yes.” Then Yuuri skates away, down to the other end of the ice.

After a moment, Viktor's music starts up again.

Yuuri tries to stay out of his way, although Viktor doesn't seem to be skating his entire routine, just practicing one small part of it repeatedly. It's the same two spins and then a jump, which he keeps landing perfectly in Yuuri's eyes, although he keeps practicing it for some unknown reason, with different exit and entry moves.

Yuuri's not sure why Viktor needs to have the sad music on for practicing that. 

He patiently listens through the score a couple of times before saying, “Is this the music you're skating to?”

Viktor stops what he’s doing. He turns around to look at Yuuri in confusion. “You don’t like it?” He looks kind of disappointed, “I can turn it off if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” Yuuri holds up his hands in defence, “I've got nothing against classical music.”

“It’s _Schwartz_.” 

“Right,” says Yuuri.

His knowledge of Soviet composers may not be as top notch as someone actually from Russia, but he's aware of the name and maybe a classic or two.

Viktor's eyebrows furrow as he skates away, then skates back. “It's from _Melodies of the White Night_ ,” he elaborates.

“Right,” repeats Yuuri. He's still skating backwards lazily. Viktor is skating forwards, not exactly with him, but now their movements are keeping them close enough for their conversation.

“ _Melodii Beloy Nochi_ ,” adds Viktor in afterthought, as if reciting the name in other languages will pique Yuuri's interest more. Or maybe he's just trying to show off some, Yuuri thinks.

“I’ve heard of it before,” Yuuri assures him.

The story is pretty simple: Ilya, a Russian composer, meets a beautiful Japanese pianist named Yuko and they fall in love.

“You’re skating to the music score of that movie about a Russian composer and Japanese pianist, right?”

Viktor's eyes flash with excitement, “You've watched it?”

Yuuri nods, “When I was younger. Once. It was with my sister. It's a good movie.”

He remembers being bundled up in front of the fireplace, the calming scent of his mother's home cooking wafting through the house. It was December he thinks. Cold. Mild in comparison to Michigan winters he'd later face. It was during the holidays, when Mari was going through her film school phase (just before her art school phase and in between her punk and emo phase), that they settled down together to watch it.

Mari thought she was cultured and artsy for watching some obscure drama. 

Yuuri had thought the film looked boring and wanted to keep watching _Doraemon._

“Good? It's genius!”

“I suppose the music and shots are well put together,” Yuuri says, hoping he doesn't sound as clueless to cinematography as he is. “The story was told with subtlety, I appreciated that.”

It’s not a very complicated observation but Viktor looks delighted.

“Right? Gestures alone can say everything; the glance through the phone booth window where Yuko's and Ilya's eyes lock and he tries to imagine her other life through the language which seems completely incomprehensible to him. Their love spreads across countries and seasons and yet they cannot pull themselves from the cultures that define them – worlds apart, perhaps.”

“So, this is what you're working on?” Yuuri listens, estimating the length of the piece and deduces “your short program?”

“Short program?” Viktor's eyes flash with something venturing on amusement, “And here I thought you weren't a fan.”

Yuuri bristles, “It's the Olympics, I know some things about skating.”

"How much is some things?” Viktor asks, genuinely curious.

“Enough to recognise a few of the jumps. A little on how the scoring system works, but not a lot more than that,” Yuuri shrugs, “Phichit, my best friend, he's a figure skater so I've been to a few competitions.”

“Hmm,” Viktor says. “Any of these competitions happen to involve me?”

Yuuri doesn't scoff, although he wants to. He can almost hear Carly Simon singing ' _You're So Vain'_  now every time Viktor opens his mouth.

“No, he's only a junior.”

Not to that Yuuri’s never purposefully watched (or illegally streamed) some of Viktor’s competitions when he was younger.

“Seniors is more fun,” Viktor winks, “You should drop in next week to watch me compete.”

Yuuri straightens up, turns around and blinks at Viktor, “You're inviting me to one of your competitions?”

“I just did, didn't I?”

“You did,” Yuuri says without sincerity, “and that means that it would be a just  _brilliant_ idea for you to come and cheer for me during a hockey game.”

He hopes that the sarcasm in his voice is thick enough to convince Viktor that it's decidedly not a good idea for either of them to attend each other's events.

Viktor doesn’t seem affected. “I would come to a game,” he says.

Yuuri narrows his eyes, “Right.”

“Why not?”

Besides the obvious? 

If Viktor wants to see a hockey game he'll have to do it some other time. Or, better yet, not at all.

“I’m sure you don’t know much about hockey.”

“I do know about hockey.”

“Right."

Viktor presses his palms together. "I do!"

Yuuri stares at him.

Viktor doesn't blink.

"Oh,” Yuuri says, guilt forcing him to frown. He pauses, momentarily taken a back by that, “Do you watch it?”

“No. I googled it today.”

The guilt simmers away, replaced by surprise.

“Today? You googled hockey?”

“When I googled you.”

Viktor Nikiforov internet stalked him.

Viktor Nikiforov internet stalked him.

 _Him_.

Yuuri Katsuki.

“You looked me up on google,” Yuuri says carefully. He ignores the rising flush in his face.

“I asked my coach about you too,” Viktor admits. “You didn't look me up?”

Yuuri didn't have to. Viktor's almost meteoric rise to the top is the stuff of sporting legends, whether he’d been a fan as a kid or not.

“You were fairly easy to find,” Viktor continues, “I just had to Google 'Japanese US Hockey Player'. Yuuri Katsuki makes history as the first Japanese player to start in a NHL game,” he recites, “Yuuri Katsuki is set to make history again as the first Japanese player to represent the U.S. Team at the Vancouver Olympics.”

Yuuri's shock goggles shatter. “I don't know why they like reminding everyone of my nationality. I grew up in Michigan, not Japan.”

It's not like people are blind, they can clearly see that he's Asian; it's never been a real disadvantage in the NHL, only cropping up as rink-side trash talk and internet gossip, so making history is overstating things.

“It's impressive,” Viktor laments. “The media and fans like stories about overcoming adversity.”

“But I live in Detroit, I'm American,” he says trying not to sound annoyed, because he shouldn’t be annoyed.

He’s known Viktor for all of half a day, there is no reason he should expect the skater to be sensitive towards him, no reason for them to sit around sharing life-stories like best friends.

“You sound less American here than you do in front of the cameras,” Viktor comments offhandedly.

Somehow Yuuri is not surprised that that's what he picked up on. Everyone knows all about his nationality crisis.

Currently drafted by the Detroit Wolves, Yuuri is a Japanese born, American raised, bilingual star on the rink, who, despite having Japanese roots, had horrified the Japanese press by becoming a potential world champion under a different flag. Not only that, but competing for the States at the Olympics (betraying his home nation!). And all due to moving and having been trained in America from such a young age.

The Japanese papers had initially been torn between wanting to embrace him as a prodigal son, or ostracise him for being a traitor to his own country. Luckily for the press, Yuuri had taken that decision right out of their hands by playing up his overtly American upbringing in all of his interviews.

He's always forcing his accent to drawl certain syllables. Yuuri never answers anything in a way which is less than loud and friendly, always forcing a white-toothed Hollywood smile to keep up appearances.

Yuuri makes no further effort to explain himself and Viktor doesn't press him.

They go back to their respective places. Viktor returns to repeating the same small sequence over and over again.

Three replays pass.

It's already maddening.

Twenty minutes go by agonisingly slow, maybe it's thirty. It feels like hours.

Neither of them dares to speak until Viktor throws himself dramatically half over the boards.

Yuuri looks up.

“Something's not quite right with this routine,” Viktor sighs, after what seems like his millionth routine run through.

Yuuri's so tired and sick of the same song that he just nods.

However, after the silence swells for too long to be considered comfortable, Yuuri speaks up. He doesn't want to go back to them both engaging in zero communication again.

“It looks fine to me.”

“Fine?”

“I'm no judge for those twirling jumps on the ice but it all looked very impressive.”

“Impressive? Well,” Viktor pauses, ponders on that, “maybe so... But I feel like it's missing something.”

“Missing what?”

Viktor runs a gloved hand through his hair, “If I knew what I'd fix it.”

“Hmm.”

“Aha! So you agree, you do think it's lacking something.”

Yuuri doesn't feel it's his place to say anything really, so he sighs, “I didn't say that.”

“But you didn't enjoy it.”

“I didn't say that either.”

“Well? What do you think of it – objectively – what do you think?”

“I don't know if I'm the best person,” Yuuri backtracks, “no - I'm _definitely_ not the person you should be talking about this with.”

“Hockey player. Not a skater. I know,” Viktor says, “I'm asking anyway.”

Since he's insisting, Yuuri gives in. “What part of the routine do you want me to comment on?”

“Whatever part that you think is the most important.”

Yuuri pulls a contemplating look as best he can before he answers, “I don't know if it's missing something per se but I just think that it’s a bit,” he swallows, “well, from what I've seen, it's just... sad.”

“Sad?” Viktor frowns. “How so?”

Yuuri shakes his head, “Just ignore me... I really don't know what I'm talking about.”

“No, I asked.” Viktor encourages him to continue.

“It sounds sad and you don't look happy when you're skating it.”

Viktor blinks at him. “Melancholy isn't a bad thing to convey while skating. The audience likes something which tugs on their heartstrings. It's _pathos_ , you know?”

“I know what _pathos_ is.”

 _Pathos_ or the emotional appeal, means to persuade an audience by appealing to their emotions. It was a phrase coined by Aristotle and while effective in a Greek Tragedy, Yuuri's just not sure if it fits so well here.

“Well,” Yuuri starts awkwardly. “From what I remember the film has a happy ending. Plus, it's not very _Viktor Nikiforov_ to do what the audience wants or expects you to.”

To Yuuri's surprise, rather than lashing out like a diva, Viktor laughs, “No. I suppose it's not.”

Oh. Right. Good. Yuuri licks his lips absently while mumbling something that no doubt makes zero sense.

"Wow! Amazing." Viktor goes on. "You picked that up right away."

“Sorry,” Yuuri almost face-palms, “I'm not qualified to judge your image or skating or it's mood or whether it's predictable... or not.”

“But sadness. You're right. It's not particularly something that goes well with my image.”

"Well it is  _your_ image. Don't listen to me. You can always change it."

To Yuuri's relief, the skater laughs again, “You don't have to apologise, I admire your honesty. I suppose Yakov could learn a thing or two from you there – in fact, many of my rink mates could.”

The strange thing is that Viktor sounds genuine. Amused, but genuine.

Lips twitching, Yuuri decides it isn’t worth dwelling on and clears his throat, opting instead to change the subject.

“Yakov is your coach?” Yuuri says. _After all these years, Yakov is still your coach?_ Yuuri thinks.

Viktor nods, “He shouts enough for thirty men combined but he never actually says anything worth noting.”

“Maybe he wouldn't shout if you listened to him,” Yuuri vouches.

“Oh, he'd like you." Viktor says, “and to think he actually told me to stay away from you.”

“Maybe you _really_ should listen to him.”

“Maybe,” Viktor agrees, “but then I'd have no fun and I wouldn't be a champion.”

“No offence,” Yuuri says, lifting his eyebrows, “but your god complex is showing.”

“It's not really a god complex. I've been told by reliable sources that I'm just a narcissist.”

“There's a difference?” Yuuri asks, though it's not a question.

“People have put me on a pedestal all my life. Excuse me for getting comfortable on it.”

Yuuri laughs, he doesn’t mean to, but it’s the only response to indignation like that. “As I was saying: sense of superiority, inflated feelings of ability, privilege and infallibility...” he trails off, “You have a god complex.”

“Not a bad thing,” Viktor shrugs, “Confidence is a weapon.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Kaito used to say that too: 'Yuuri, you can never have too much money or too much confidence'.”

Viktor hesitates, “Kaito?”

Yuuri brushes it off, “A friend of mine growing up. Used to believe he was untouchable too.”

Not exactly someone Yuuri can quote as a reliable source. Kaito also used to believe that the sun sunk into the ocean at sunset to become the moon. Kaito was also convinced that he was immortal when they were thirteen. All because he hadn't died yet and didn't intend to.

Yuuri never could quite prove him wrong there. Kaito's evidence? He was still alive. Yuuri could never argue with that.

Last Yuuri heard, Kaito is still kicking now. Studying Geography in Minnesota. The world always was an oversized playground for his brain.

“Used to?” _Past tense._

“Accident,” Yuuri shrugs, keeps his answers short and to the point, “shoulder injury. Brought Kaito back down to earth a little. Made it so he'll never play pro again.” Kaito’s own golden pedestal was a little too high. When he fell from it, the results were so catastrophic. “Life happens.”

“Is that why you're so cautious?”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“You lean in on yourself when you skate, you know. Tucked in. Shoulders especially. The rest of the players on the ice look ready to attack, you look like you're about to be attacked.”

Yuuri turns away. That's a habit he picked up far before Kaito's injury.

He frowns at how this conversation has turned sour. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore.

“Can I see the whole thing?” Yuuri asks, flipping the tables. “Your routine.”

Viktor stares at him blankly for a second.

He looks as if Yuuri's alternating emotions are giving him whiplash. Maybe they are.

“You want to see my short program?”

“If that's alright of course. If it's not part of your training schedule for today or if it's just too intrusive–“

“Yuuri?”

“Yes?”

“It's fine,” he grins, “I'd be happy to show you.”

That smile.

Yuuri swallows the butterflies caught in his chest, trying his very best to keep his head on properly. And then he skates over to the boards, and sits and tries not to fidget too much in anticipation.

Viktor skates over to the other side of the rink, rewinding his music back to the start before skating to the centre of the ice.

He gets into position, waits. Yuuri waits with him.

This is his ten-year-old self's dream: Seeing a Viktor Nikiforov live performance.

The music starts and it looks so natural, as if Viktor was meant only to be on ice always, as if walking is abnormal for him. Both he and his skates move fluidly. There's not one jerky movement. He balances himself so easily; truly an expert.

When he jumps high in the air he looks like some kind of angel - minus the halo of course. He spins around, keeping his right foot straight and body free, turning in an anti-clockwise direction, holding his chest out, head back and left knee in the air.

In sync with the music, Viktor holds his arms out at just below shoulder level. His head is forward, knees bent slightly. He keeps his body loose the entire time. At that moment, he holds out his hand, pretending to be a graceful swan, moving naturally. But soon after, he glides across the ice cold rink with ease and grace, launching himself into his signature move: the quadruple flip.

Clearly he is both a prodigy and a showoff.

Nevertheless, when the music ends, Yuuri has a giant smile on his face. One that couldn't be mistaken for anything less than amazed.

He slow claps, "That was brilliant!"

Viktor looks thoroughly shocked at Yuuri's enthusiastic reaction. “You thought it was brilliant?”

“I can't believe I got to see that in person,” says Yuuri, not knowing how to even remotely react like a normal person.

A normal person would be as floored as Yuuri. Surely. He means, _surely_ , this must be the general population's reaction to Viktor Nikiforov. It's not just him. This is a normal response.

“It was unbelievable.”

Viktor looks satisfied with that for a moment and if Yuuri didn't know already that it was the exertion from skating, he'd almost think that Viktor's cheeks had turned the faintest shade of pink. Then he says, stepping off the ice, “It was okay, but nowhere near good enough.”

“Okay?” Yuuri repeats, dumbstruck. “Are you kidding? I couldn't do what you just did in a million years.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Viktor says, “you could do all of that and more. I over-rotated twice. Stepped out of my flip. The second half was god awful.”

“Let me adjust my previous statement. Forget a million years, I couldn't do what you just did _ever_.”

Viktor looks at him gratefully, “You could. It's just that you learned to skate a different way. You adapted for hockey, I adapted for figure skating. Same skills, transferred differently. You could pick it up easily.”

“I'd get nowhere without a toe pick,” Yuuri mutters. “I'd like to see you try to teach me even half of what you just did.”

“It's all about working with your body, knowing your edges. Maybe after the games are over I'll give you some lessons,” says Viktor winking, "I'll be your coach."

Yuuri gawks at him in surprise, but the skating prodigy is already moving away from him, back towards the lockers.

Yuuri follows him after a moment.

Viktor pulls off his skates and begins carefully packing away his things into a sleek black sports bag. The complimentary bag all athletes are given, the long one with the Olympic symbols embroidered into the side. He swings his team Russia jacket on next and then his big dramatic winter coat once more.

Off the ice Yuuri is even more conscious of how short and stubby his 5'7 frame is next to Viktor's almost unnatural tallness and leanness.

It's to be expected after all – not that it makes it any less annoying. 

It's obvious from their physiques why Viktor had ended up spinning around on the ice to sonatas and ballads like some delicate sugar plum fairy while Yuuri muscles his way through bruises and fights and blood and broken noses.

Viktor turns to him, “Are you finished?”

“For today, yes,” Yuuri says, almost physically shaking himself back to reality – checking that this _is_  in fact his reality.

“Yeah, I think I'm done.” Viktor looks back over to the hockey player, who still hasn't moved, and Yuuri takes that as his cue to pack up himself.

He shoves his skates and equipment back into his bag, lacking the finesse of Viktor's neat folding and careful placements. Lacking the grace of his long, pianist-looking fingers.

Just before Yuuri's about to grab his coat, he stalls. Mesmerised as Viktor pulls out a lip balm ( _Chanel obviously_ , Yuuri thinks, rolling his eyes). His dainty fingertips flash across his mouth as he applies it to his full lips.

Viktor catches Yuuri's gaze and Yuuri curses himself.

Can he stop being so obvious for five minutes?

He can't seem to help himself. He's always been a sucker for the right kind of eyes and Viktor has a pair as pale as the moon, with a moonlit head of silver hair to match. Yuuri stares at him, mouth dry.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks, smile threatening to break across his face as he seems to be able to read Yuuri's trail of thoughts. “Have you got everything?”

Viktor's waiting for him?

“Oh. No, don't worry. You can go on ahead. You don’t have to wait for me,” Yuuri says, averting his gaze and sounding curter than intended, but feeling a little more than flustered.

He can feel Viktor's eyes on him, cataloguing his every move, the intensity of it warming his body from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

A moment of silence passes. 

Viktor doesn't leave.

Yuuri doesn't look up.

"You _can_ go, you know."

“Oh,” says Viktor, hurt, realising his company may not be welcome. “You're right. I'm sorry. I just presumed—”

And now Yuuri's ruined it. He didn't mean to be rude to Viktor. Maybe earlier he might have intended to... but much less so now.

“No,” Yuuri interrupts. “That's not what I meant. I just know how valuable your time is, and I didn't want you to be wasting it waiting around for me—”

The moonlight seems to return to Viktor's eyes, not as intense as before but enough to make Yuuri let out a small sigh of relief.

“I just thought we could walk back together. But maybe you're right and we should just part ways now.”

“No!” Yuuri exclaims and then coughs, embarrassment flooding his veins in the form of molten mortification. “I mean, I'd like that. If we could walk back together that is.”

Somehow Yuuri's little awkward outburst hasn't lessened the smile on Viktor's face, if anything – it’s gotten larger.

“Right,” says Viktor, and after a second, he leans back off the line of lockers and straightens up.

Yuuri shrugs on his coat. He pointedly avoids looking at Viktor until his heart rate has returned to its normal number of beats per minute.

Viktor doesn't seem to notice, casually swinging his bag over his shoulder and holding the door open for Yuuri to exit. Yuuri mumbles out ‘thanks’ as he passes and doesn't comment when Viktor's cold hand finds refuge at the bottom of his spine. They lightly brush his lower back, guiding him out of the empty rink.

It's a strangely comforting presence. Yuuri's not sure if he wants it removed.

Viktor certainly isn’t what Yuuri had been expecting. In fact, he hardly seems anything like the person Yuuri had seen in interviews at all. If it wasn’t for the obvious, the unmistakable silver hair, the almost catlike blue eyes and the lithe body build of a figure skater, Yuuri wouldn’t have realised it was the same man. 

It's funny, he thinks.

Viktor is kind of ridiculous.

Viktor is also kind of nice.

Viktor kind of makes him forget to breathe.

He's more than two-dimensional by any means.

When they reach Yuuri's stop, Viktor doesn't turn around. He just says, “I'll see you at the same time tomorrow,” and then he disappears off into the night, his figure and dark clothes blending him effortlessly into the evening fog.

* * *

That morning, Yuuri catches himself mulling over his wardrobe.

He know that it's _ridiculous_.

All day, he catches himself fussing with his appearance. Fixing his hair, pulling at his clothes, looking over his shoulder - which is terrible because Viktor's not even at the rink today. 

However, Yuuri does get to see Viktor again earlier than their planned evening. Not at the rink, but at the dining hall for lunch. He's never seen Viktor in the cafeteria before, blending in with the other athletes. It's actually rather odd to see him doing such a mundane thing.

Viktor is equal to him here. _Huh_. A bit more of Viktor's golden shell chips away.

The skater is busy flashing his smile. It attracts like bees to honey. Yuuri can't help his gaze from gravitating to him.

It dawns on Yuuri how strange it is that he's never seen him in here before. Where has he been eating? 

Viktor looks unnatural under the artificial lights. Washed out by the white walls. Yet, he looks comfortable. Sat laughing with Chris, speaking animatedly to the wonder of all those around him. 

Viktor is yet again so different to how he is when they're alone. This Viktor is one he doesn't know.

Chris puts an arm around the silver-haired skater and it's like a kick to the gut. Yuuri doesn't know why that simple action is hitting him like this, it's kind of like this tumbling seething vortex of utter confusion.

One of the right-wingers slides next to him, "Who are we hating on?"

"What?"

"Who are you glaring at? Giacometti or Nikiforov?"

"Oh," Yuuri shakes his head, realisation dawning on him. Realisation that he's not being as discreet as he could. "Neither."

But if Yuuri's being honest: Giacometti.

"Then what? One of them take the last low-fat strawberry yoghurt or something?"

"What? No."

"Oh. Ohhhh." The guy suddenly exclaims, following Yuuri's gaze and having a eureka moment. "So when you said you weren't interested in that girl last night, you really weren't _interested_."

Yuuri turns to him in panic, "That's not it either."

"Yes it is," the guy asserts, "oooh and you're crushing on a figure skater."

"Shhh," Yuuri hushes, reminding him that they're in a very public place.

"You've just became a very interesting person Yuuri Katsuki. I like interesting people."

"It's not what you think-"

He waves his hand, "I'm not gonna say anything dude."

"You're not?"

"Nikiforov kinda looks like a girl anyway. Last Olympics, one of the goalies - rotten luck he didn't make it here this year - tried chatting this long-haired chick up during opening ceremonies..."

He trails off, challenging Yuuri to guess what so obviously transpired next.

"Let me guess," Yuuri says, remembering Viktor's waist-length locks, "Not a chick at all? It was Vik- Nikiforov?"

"Bingo. Chick had a dick."

Yuuri looks back over to the skating table.

"Stop that," the guy says - elbowing Yuuri.

"What?"

"I forgot you're new," he sighs. "Rule number one: stay away from Viktor Nikiforov."

"This is a rule?"

"Unofficially. It's one we dispersed last year to some of the younger girls. But, those starry eyes you're giving Nikiforov make you eligible for the warning too."

"I don't have starry eyes," Yuuri protests.

The player doesn't dignify that with an answer. "You ever wonder why Nikiforov never practices at the rink with everyone else?"

"Well, now that you mention it. I did notice that he wasn't there today but-"

"There's a reason."

Come to think of it, Viktor didn't show up to practice until late yesterday either and Yuuri didn't see him do anything until the evening.

Shy? Unlikely.

"That reason being?"

"Nikiforov is not someone you want to get close to. Or anyone should get close to. Ever. Gay, straight, pan or whatever. Nah, he's just not worth it."

"What do you mean?"

"He's not nice. No matter much his little fan club and online army would have you think differently."

"He's that bad?"

"You have no idea," the player replies, "ask anyone who's not making goo goo eyes at him."

"I thought he seemed," Yuuri slows himself down there, stops himself from saying something like 'decent' or 'nice'. Worse 'charming'. "No I just - I mean... Really?"

“He's a prick to put it bluntly,” the other man sighs, “a real asshole. The kind of person who rents out the entire rink a day right before a big game just because he can.”

He'd done that?

“Right.” In a strange, twisted sort of way it almost makes sense.

“Look, he doesn't talk to anyone, not even other skaters - except maybe Giacometti or that one over there with the bad eyeshadow,” Yuuri looks over, noting that Chris and Georgi Popovich were the only ones Viktor was directing any words to.

"Georgi Popovich," Yuuri supplies.

“Right, Drag Queen Maleficent," the player says in response and Yuuri chokes back a laugh. "Fuck. Is that offensive?"

"Not to me," Yuuri shrugs, "to him... probably."

"Anyway, Viktor's rink mates sit by him and talk but he hardly pays them attention. He thinks he's too good for everyone here and just by showing up he knows he'll take home a gold medal. It's criminal because he's right. He _always_ medals.”

Then he falls quiet.

The silence grates on Yuuri, the atmosphere bordering on uneasiness. In fact, it's quite uncomfortable, in a tight itchy sweater knitted by your old grandmother kind of way.

Before clearing his tray, the guy leaves Yuuri with one last bit of advice: "Be careful."

He accompanies the reminder with a gentle sort of pity, as if to say, _yes, you’ll probably ignore me, but it’s hardly your fault. You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last to fall victim to Viktor Nikiforov's charms._

It’s nice to know that someone’s looking out for him. Flattering, somewhat, but in a way, not.

He's eighteen. Not a child.

And so, not that Yuuri has to, because he's not a blushing twelve-year-old, but he makes a mental note.

Rule Two: _Do not fall in love with Viktor Nikiforov and more importantly do not let yourself think that Viktor Nikiforov has fallen in love with you._

Yuuri does it because it's easy to fall in love with someone like Viktor.

Yuuri can see the looks of adoration that the skater gathers. Looks. _Plural_. Viktor quite clearly has this lousy habit of making people fall in love with him. Ironically, Yuuri has a lousy habit of wearing his heart on his sleeve. It's nothing short of a recipe for disaster.

And Yuuri refuses to be one of Viktor's slack-jawed, doe-eyed followers. He's better than that. He's above all that.

He knows that for some unknown reason, Viktor thinks that he's interested in Yuuri. Yuuri also knows that interest is misplaced. He knows that Viktor has a pendant for shiny new things and that he will be dropped as soon as the skater's curiosity fades.

Yuuri knows that. He's not stupid.

He makes up his mind about this whole business. He'll be polite to Viktor during their training sessions and be nothing else to him outside of that.

The hockey player turns his attention back to the conversation at his own table, catching the tail end of some of the team's conversations.

A man, a Boston player from Yuuri's guess, and only mildly past his mid-twenties is leaning over the table saying, “I have tremendous faith in my team, organisation, coach and GM, and just about all of our players, but even though we could compete with the absolute best-constructed teams in the league, we can't beat them more than 25% of the time.”

Yuuri finds himself half-listening. Not knowing the man's team but finding the veteran's discussion a helpful distraction from the alternative: looking at Viktor.

Someone must have butted in because now Team guy is shaking his head.

"We're slumping to the finish line. Our time was between November and January. We were nearly 1st in the league for a couple of weeks, our GA/game, G/game, SH/game and SHagainst/game were all top 8 at least, mostly top 5. Since then we battled injuries and compensated with our two big trades, which unfortunately resulted in season-ending IR.”

Another one of the guys - presumably a teammate - nods, “It's alright. The streak is alive, our coach will re-sign, we'll get the youngsters some more playoff experience, but we're not gonna do anything, unless we can play the Snakes or some other slumping team in the first round.”

The first guy groans, “It'll be 1-goal losses, too, one or two of them in overtime as well. Yeah, two, not three, not one. We have a really tough and tenacious team that would give even the 1970s USSR a run for their money, but we just cannot win games when we have the opportunity. We don't have that one play that you need.”

Common story.

Without that one ingredient you're screwed.

The Wolves have the same issue. Evidence of this can be put on Yuuri in that last playoff, he played a stellar game while making two best-of-the-season saves, but also gave up two of the softest goals imaginable.

The state of the team now…

Can. Not. Win.

Yuuri looks down at his plate, suddenly feeling less hungry than before. He clears his tray and gives the other guys at the table a nod before he stands and makes his way towards the exit.

On his way out, Yuuri doesn’t so much as glance at Viktor and the moment he’s outside, he heads straight to the rink.

Can you ignore someone who doesn't know you're ignoring them? Yuuri wonders. 

He can certainly try.

He doesn't know if Viktor saw his purposeful exit from the cafeteria, nor should it matter to Yuuri if he did. Because Viktor is exactly the kind of person that Yuuri would never go for, regardless of gender. He's exactly the kind of person that Yuuri would look at once and never try chatting up, knowing it would be futile.

They're worlds apart.

That leaves only one option, and Yuuri won’t be used.

He doesn't expect Viktor to follow him to the rink. Not to practice. Just to observe. He sits in the stands and Yuuri only knows he's still there because before he leaves, he steals one glance his way. Viktor's eyes pierce him.

The skater gets up, waits by the boards for Yuuri to finish up. Yuuri walks past him and straight on through to the locker room. It's petty but it's effective.

Or so he thinks because Viktor is also leaning against the wall outside the rink.

Yet again, Yuuri tries to act like he hasn't saw him. Or if he has saw him, he doesn't know him.

Rule One.

Rule One.

Rule One.

He repeats it like a mantra until he's back if the safety of his suite. A panic room of sorts to protect Yuuri from Russian skaters with planets in his eyes.

* * *

That night Viktor crowds him, "You've been ignoring me."

Before he can move, the door to the rink closes.

Yuuri doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to see who closed it. He keeps his back turned and his face hidden. The footsteps stop behind him, close enough to touch.

Yuuri never stands a chance.

“The mixed signals should be off-putting,” Viktor remarks. “But they're actually quite the opposite.”

His voice rumbles down into Yuuri's ear. His breath is hot.

"Mixed signals," Yuuri repeats. “You wanted to see if I would still come here tonight. Here I am."

Viktor brushes against him. A light touch, two, three light touches. Fingertips on his sides, faintly felt through his thermals. Soft heat finds the edge of his ear, the smallest touch of lips.

Yuuri has to swallow, has to strain for air before the sounds he makes are unintelligible.

"Mixed signals," Viktor confirms, pulling away and giving Yuuri room to breathe.

"Right," Yuuri says finally, "so what if I was avoiding you?"

"Nothing," he replies, agitated and distant, as if he’s just been slighted by someone far away. 

Viktor is quieter tonight, focusing more on his free skate than anything else. They train in silence. No music. Yuuri's sure that he's deliberately ignoring him as some kind of punishment for his 'mixed signals'.

That thought is dashed however when Viktor shoots him a smile at the end of practice - as if he's glad that Yuuri had just let him get on with his own thing tonight. Like he needed it. 

Viktor seems grateful for the no-questions-asked silence.

This time after they're done practicing, Viktor actually asks, "Same time tomorrow?"

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “If you insist.”

Viktor doesn't follow him off the ice, "I'm going to stay for a little longer, I think."

"You don't like practicing in the day?"

Viktor shakes his head, "It's too loud and because of who I am... well, I don't get much privacy."

Yuuri nods in understanding, he can adhere to that. Eyes follow Viktor wherever he goes. Giggles throngs of fangirls who are professional athletes and should really know better.

Yuuri stands and leaves, but he smiles warmly at Viktor before closing the door behind him. 

He Googles Viktor Nikiforov that night.

It's something which he hasn't done in at least three years. He's already dreading the news reports, but finds that the millions fan pages are worse instead.

He scrolls down the long-ass tumblr meta posts and dating rumours.

It looks like a mound of pretentious shite, especially the stuff breaking down his choreography and seemingly impossible jumps, but having seen the man do it in person, Yuuri's oddly uncertain.

* * *

The next evening marks another day closer to the Opening Ceremony.

The Village will be fuller, the rink less likely to be free.

The windows beside the midrise lay open to the night beyond. Outside the Village the gaudy, vulgar lights of the city simmer in the distance, burning like a hot magnesium flame.

Yuuri sighs, grabbing his umbrella; the rink isn't exactly far but it's raining heavily. Slushy droplets hitting the glass windowpane; a semi-frozen hybrid of sleet and downpour.

As Yuuri stretches tiredly, his muscles cry for him to stop moving altogether. He's trained a lot today, he could probably do with sleeping instead of meeting Viktor for another session.

However, he's already promised (albeit by omission).

It's OK, he'll just take it easy. Skate some circles or something for an hour or so. 

“Heading out again?”

Yuuri whirls around at the voice behind him.

“Oh, yeah. I’m just going to the rink.” At his teammates raised eyebrows Yuuri adds, “To _train_.”

“If that’s what the kids are calling it nowadays.”

“No, really,” the blush staining his cheeks not helping him plead his case, “I’m training.”

His teammate smirks, a knowing glint in his eyes. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I tagged along?”

Yuuri imagines the right winger joining him, seeing where he’s been disappearing off to. Knowing about his late night private training sessions with Viktor Nikiforov. Knowing he’s doing the complete and utter opposite of what he told him to. Somehow, he doesn’t see that going down well.

“I wouldn’t go that far…”

“As I was saying,” he winks, giving Yuuri a thumb up. “Have fun _training_!”

“Whatever,” Yuuri smiles into his collar and goes to open his umbrella before heading out. “See you later.”

“Whoa! Stop!” the player says before Yuuri fully opens his umbrella, “from experience, opening an umbrella indoors totally pisses off the sun god... You’re best to take it outside or feel the wrath.”

“Superstitious?” Yuuri asks.

“No, just smart thinking,” he says, pointing to his head, “we don’t need any bad luck before any games.”

Well. He’s not wrong.

Not that it will make a difference in the game itself.

“Thanks,” Yuuri says, “I’ll avoid black cats, breaking any mirrors and spilling salt when I’m at it.”

“Please do,” the guy laughs. "Hey kid?"

"Yeah?"

He looks odds serious for a moment and Yuuri swallows.

"You know, gay, straight, black, white, Asian, green with a horn on the forehead. I really don't care, if you're out there doing what you love, I say good on you. If you're on my team, I'll slap you on the butt for making a good play. If you're not on my team, I will attempt to circumcise you with my goal stick during the game and share a beer with you after."

Yuuri smiles, "Sorry, but if you're green with a horn on your forehead I'm going to have to go ahead and slay you. Pretty sure there's a princess in it for me."

"I like you," the older player chuckles. "But pretty sure you're not interested in the princess."

Yuuri sucks in a breath, he should have known that their exchange in the cafeteria wasn't over. "You can't say anything-"

"I'm not stupid," he says, "you think I want to hear the crowd chirp some homophobic crap at my teammate and deal with some of the boys being all pissy with you? No thank you. I'm hear for a chilled Olympics, and the girls. God I'm glad you don't like girls. More girls I have a chance with."

"You don't mind that I'm ga-" Yuuri pauses, he's not sure if he can say it. 

He doesn't have to. The player understands.

"Here's how it is: On average there have been one or two gay players in most teams I have played for, up to three in some, but it's not caused any trouble."

Yuuri's eyebrows jump so high it feels like they disappear into his hairline, "Really?"

"You'd be surprised. I've been in teams in the past where there may have been a relationship between players in the same team, although you never really know because it is their private life - but, again, it's never caused any divisions. A person's sexuality is never at the forefront of anybody's agenda or thought processes anyway, so it's just been about what they do on the sheet and what sort of person they are, not who they're going with."

Yuuri sighs, "But still, no professional hockey player past or present has ever come out. In fact, the NHL is the only major American sports franchise that's never had a gay player."

"Which is why you wait until your career has reached it's end before you come out," he advises, "you're young. Go have some fun but don't jeopardise your career."

"I'm not going to do anything about those urges."

"Now you see? That shit just ain't healthy. You're what, eighteen?" Yuuri nods, "Christ. Go get some. No-one here will judge you for anything. Heck some might ask to join in, or watch," at Yuuri's horrified expression he laughs harder, "what goes on here is different to what goes on out there. It's like Vegas, what happens in the Village stays in the Village. You're a Wolf right?"

Yuuri nods, not sure where he's going with this. 

"Then you'll know that on the outside some players will beat the shit out anyone for anything, and the fans brawl pretty bad too."

He can say that again.

"Just looking out for you rookie."

"Uh, thank you."

"My advice would be to get it out your system here. It's the most hush hush venue you can get. People will gossip whether you do or don't do something scandalous here. Might as well give them something to talk about, am I right?"

Yuuri bites his lip, "I'm not sure..." he looks down at his phone, checking the time. "Sorry. I've uh, got to leave now."

"Have fun at your practice session.” He puts air quotations around ‘practice session’ just to be a dick.

Yuuri takes what he can get, “Maybe I will.”

* * *

He doesn't expect the 'fun' to be a half naked Viktor waiting for him in the locker room.

"Oh, hey," Viktor greets, tugging a long-sleeved black t-shirt over his head. 

The t-shirt doesn't automatically fall completely over Viktor's flesh. It leaves his taunt stomach and hips exposed.

Yuuri wants to put his hands there. He wants to trace all the points where bones cause skin to rise up then ribbon out, all the places where softness finds dimension.

He cuts off that train of thought, shoving his bag down in his frustration and turning away. 

"Hi," he manages. Shifting from foot to foot Yuuri sticks his hands in his pockets and tries not to look too obvious, or too nervous, or too obviously nervous, or, God, he's took to babbling in his own head now.

That is not a good sign.

Finally, he puts himself into something resembling order, and Viktor catches Yuuri’s arm when he reaches for the door.

Yuuri doesn't shrug it off.

Viktor doesn't remove it.

Neither of them comment as they take to the ice and go to their respective ends of the rink.

The silence is more companionable than awkward but Yuuri soon picks up on Viktor's sullen mood. It's like he's projecting his dissatisfaction across the ice sheet and it's putting Yuuri off. It's not peaceful like last night at all.

He clears his throat, skates around the rink closer to Viktor. “What's wrong?” asks Yuuri gingerly.

Viktor throws a glance his way but doesn't say anything.

Yuuri frowns.

Prim, poised and looking like a model, Viktor continues to regard him before finally consenting to give him an answer. “Nothing.”

“If you’re sure,” Yuuri replies, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

A pause. Viktor shuts his mouth, which is a shame. He runs a rough hand through his hair, which is well-worth watching, whether he's an asshole or not.

“It’s just this routine,” Viktor sighs. A more honest answer Yuuri notes. “It’s getting more and more dull the more I run through it.”

“It’s not that surprising. You hardly need to practice. After completing the routine perfectly every time, I'd get tired too. Proud of myself – but bored.”

“Aren't you sick of doing that?” Viktor asks, “you've been skating in those same circles for two nights now.”

Yuuri immediately shakes his head. They're not supposed to be talking about him right now.

“The laps help me relax. Plus, I did some shooting practice today too,” Yuuri defects, “while you've been skating that same sad routine for the past three nights.”

“I'm trying to fix 'the _sad_ routine' as you've so helpfully dubbed it.”

Viktor doesn’t sound angry, maybe a little frustrated but Yuuri doesn’t understand it. Viktor completes the routine flawlessly every time. He’s the best in the world, he doesn’t have anything to worry about.

Yuuri, on the other hand, _he_ has a multitude of things to keep him awake at night. At least if Viktor fails (which he very likely won’t), he’d only be letting down himself. If Yuuri fails, he’ll be letting down his entire team – hell his country too.

“So, essentially, we're both going in circles?”

“Hmm,” the other man says turning his face from where he had been looking out to the stands. “How about we take a break?”

Yuuri blinks, “Isn’t this a break?”

Viktor shakes his head, “This is a rest.”

“You want to take a break after we’ve finished resting?” Yuuri whistles, “Don’t let them say Olympic athletes don’t work hard.”

“I have an idea,” Viktor says, eyes lighting up, “we should have a competition. A wager!”

From Yuuri's experiences thus far in college, wagers tend to end badly.

He approaches the subject with suspicion, “Depends on what that wager is.”

“Give me your stick thing,” Viktor demands, making grabby hands towards him.

Yuuri jumps backwards and blushes furiously, “What?”

Viktor frowns, “The hockey stick,” he says with no other expression.

“Right,” Yuuri says then mentally curses himself for thinking Viktor had prepositioned him with what had sounded like an absolutely terrible innuendo. Fortunately, his companion seems to have failed to notice.

Yuuri is about to comply with Viktor's demand but he stops himself, pausing to ask “Wait... why?”

“You think hockey is hard. I think figure skating is harder. I want to test it. If I get the puck in the net, you have to admit that figure skating is harder.”

Yuuri leans back slightly, unsure what to make of that. “That's not fair,” he says, finally, in no universe would that be an equal test. “You don't have anyone trying to take you down and I can't be both goalie and defence.”

"It's just for fun."

"Still."

"There's another side to this. You have to do a jump and land it cleanly.”

“A figure skating jump in hockey skates?” Yuuri asks incredulously. “Without a toe pick?”

He's not some performing monkey. He's tired. He's already hit the ice enough for today... though it's probably tomorrow now isn't it? Yuuri glances at the clock. 1am. Officially tomorrow - today. Whatever.

“If you don't think you can do it, that's fine. But you should know that I've tried it once and successfully landed an axel.”

Of course he has. The twenty-two-year-old could probably do a quadruple flip blind-folded and with his arms tied behind his back.

“You're awfully sure of yourself.”

There's a slight twitch to the Russian man's lips. “That's not what most people say.”

“What do they say instead?”

“Worse things." He flicks a polite smile across his face. It looks more like a flinch. "That I'm arrogant, I'm spoilt, that I've become too comfortable on the podium to take competitions or my competitors seriously.”

Yuuri shoots him a sideways glance, “And you disagree with all those statements?”

Viktor glances back and they both grin.

They share the humour between themselves for a moment and Yuuri finds himself relaxing for the first time since he had found Viktor in the locker room. In the locker room _without his shirt_.

Best not think about that too closely.

“I don't disagree with them,” Viktor relents, his eyes as big and as wide as a cancer-stricken puppy on chemo. There’s truth in those assumptions. Viktor doesn’t know all his competitors. “But they're still not very nice things to hear about yourself.”

"Are you pouting?" Yuuri exclaims, documenting Viktor's expression of melodramatic woe. “You are. You're actually pouting about this.”

“I'm not.”

“Right,” Yuuri says playfully.

“Right,” Viktor mimics in his own childish retaliation.

“I can't jump in these skates, but you know that already of course.”

“Probably not, but won't it be a little bit of excitement? At the very least we won’t be skating in circles,” Viktor points out.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I don’t need to do jumps in hockey. And I don’t know how to. I think it would be a really bad idea.”

“What are you talking about? Jumping is child's play. Six-year olds can do it. I'm only asking for a waltz. What is there to know?”

A waltz? Hmm. It's the move that's most like ballet on ice. If Yuuri focuses on his muscle memory he could probably –

No.

What is he thinking?

This is no time to be playing games.

He's already breaking rule one.

Yuuri voices something akin to this in his reply: “How not to tumble to the ice, slam into the boards, and give myself concussion.”

“You play hockey! Yakov says you get into violent fights during and after every game. You engage in dangerous acts all the time.”

“In the heat of the game. Yes. That's different.”

Viktor licks his lips, “Can't I do something to tempt you?”

“Not a thing.”

“What if I show you a different program to the sad one?” Viktor prompts, undefeated by Yuuri's objection to his bet.

“I've already seen you practice your free skate.”

“No. This one is different. I haven't performed it in any competitions yet.”

This makes Yuuri reconsider for a moment. He’s seen both of Viktor’s programs over the past few days, and he's fairly sure Viktor only needs a free skate and short program to compete. Unless...

“Is this your exhibition skate, for if you win?”

“ _When_ I win,” Viktor corrects and Yuuri smiles despite himself, “and no. This is something else entirely.”

A never seen before Viktor Nikiforov routine?

“What is it?” Yuuri responds, with a little too much curiosity; letting Viktor know he's got him right where he wants him.

Viktor injects just a hint of indifference into his tone, playing off the fact that he knows he's already won Yuuri over.

“Something I’ve only recently been working on. It’s a little rough around the edges but I’ve never performed it in front of anyone else.”

“Never?” Yuuri hangs on that word. He wants to see it. He wants to see this part of Viktor the rest of the world hasn't seen before _desperately_.

This is exactly why Viktor has suggested it. He knows it's something Yuuri can't turn down.

“Never.” Viktor promises.

Yuuri makes the mistake of looking up.

“Fine,” Yuuri says. “I'll take the bait,” Viktor looks at him in confusion so he clarifies: “I'll accept your wager.”

“Great!” Viktor grins, the satisfaction of the cat who’s got the cream gracing his face. He claps his gloved hands together and reaches for Yuuri's hockey stick.

“No,” Yuuri manoeuvres the stick away from Viktor's reach. “Show me your routine first. Then we'll play.”

“How do I know you'll follow through?” Viktor inquires, folding his arms across his chest.

Yuuri turns the question back around on him, “How do I know that you'll follow through?”

Viktor sticks out his lower lip.

“Because I'm the one who wants to play the game, and I intend to win.”

And that comment does it.

Yuuri's in. He's always been a little competitive and now that Viktor wants to win, Yuuri's competitive streak flares to life. He _wants_ to beat Viktor at his own silly game.

“Has anyone every told you that you're impossible Viktor Nikiforov?”

“Stubborn, yes. Impossible, no. You're the first Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. He doesn't believe that for a second.

“How about we up the stakes? If you don't follow through, I win by default. If I don't follow through, you're the winner by default.”

“That sounds fair.” Viktor pull a glove off and holds out his hand, “shake on it?”

Yuuri looks at the offered hand for a moment. Just like the rest of Viktor it is long and pale. Is there no sun in Russia, or does Viktor just never step outside the ice rink to catch it?

When Yuuri eventually takes Viktor's hand, shaking it, Yuuri notes that Viktor’s palm is warmer than he expected and slightly damp. To be fair, so is Yuuri’s.

Viktor smiles and Yuuri waits for it, for something. A tug or a caress or _something_. Anything. A motion to resist, a gesture to reject. Instead, Viktor casually releases his hand and skates away to go set up his music.

Yuuri tries not to feel disappointed at the loss of contact, skating to the side and out of Viktor's way.

A soft [melody](https://youtu.be/KHbbDjp73Zo) drifts through the rink.

Viktor quickly takes his place this time. And then he's off.

This routine is not a movie music score. It is not a matter of plot, catharsis and comedy, character developments, or dangling participles. Instead, Viktor is words and wonder on ice, mapping out his own story.

It's the lights. They glare and pulsate right into his skin, drench his hair until he's radiant with it and his hips move in _that_ way and the song beats its way out of his chest and he is both a thunderstorm on ice, wild and furious, and nothing can stop him, as well as a balanced and poised prima ballerina. Delicate and dainty like Spring's falling cherry blossoms. 

It's the lights that make Yuuri forget who Viktor actually is. He's not just Viktor Nikiforov, guaranteed gold medallist anymore. He looks younger… more vulnerable than Yuuri’s ever seen him before – his emotions bleeding out onto the ice.

What's the word?

He's reaching out to something just out of grasp.

Longing?

Ah. No. Not quite.

More passionate than that. 

Aha!

 _Yearning_.

It makes Yuuri see that he and Viktor aren't so different. He's a work in progress too. Books with battered covers, but pages full of great words.

Yuuri doesn't wait until the music disappears before skating to the centre of the rink, applauding,“To quote you, _‘Wow, amazing_!’”

Viktor shakes his platinum bangs out of his eyes, and smiles widely, “Do you really think so?”

“Do you honestly believe that I'd lie? I think it's the best routine I've seen you perform." _Ever_ , he doesn't say.

"I think it's my new favourite too."

"You've proved your point already." Yuuri admits in defeat, "I take it back. Saying that figure skating is not a sport is like saying that abstract painting is not art."

Viktor tilts his head. “Really? Interesting.”

He doesn't look as victorious as Yuuri had expected, he looks curious.

“I mean the routine itself is kind of depressing like the other one,” Yuuri says, “but it’s a nice kind of sad, like a longing sort of sadness. Are all your routines sad? When you were a junior they weren’t,” he says more to himself than Viktor. Maybe Viktor’s sad?

“Pathos,” Viktor reminds him.

“Pathos,” Yuuri agrees, losing his trail of thought, “it’s much more convincing in this piece. What’s it called?”

“The song? _Stamnio vicino_ ,” Viktor replies, “Stay Close to Me.”

“Potential free skate for next season?”

“Potentially,” Viktor pauses like he expected Yuuri to say something more, “it depends what Yakov says.”

Yuuri widens his eyes, “I thought you didn’t listen to Yakov.”

“I don’t,” Viktor answers with an equal amount of humour in his tone, “but sometimes, when the occasion calls, I have to.”

“Ah, so you’re selectively obedient?”

“Selectively co-operative.”

“Viktor Nikiforov. Twenty-two-year-old World Champion and selectively obedient Living Legend.”

“You forgot that I’m also a dog enthusiast with a god complex.”

Yuuri lets out a small timid laugh, “Sure. But then, who isn’t a dog enthusiast?”

“You have dog?” Viktor asks with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever himself.

Yuuri nods, “A poodle. Had him since I was twelve.”

“I have a poodle too! She’s called Makkachin, she’s staying with my rink mates at the moment. It feels weird being away from them at competitions, right?”

Yuuri looks at his feet, the familiar feeling of guilt knawing away at him, “I’ve got used to it. Mine keeps my dad company at home, I’ve been travelling for tournaments for as long as I can remember and now I’ve moved to my college halls… I feel like I haven’t seen him in forever.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, “I’m sure he doesn’t mind. Plus, he’s probably enjoying keeping your dad company while you’re away. What’s his name?”

“My dad?”

Viktor laughs, “No your dog.”

Crap.

 _Your name,_ Yuuri thinks.

Not that he can say that... 

... Can he?

Vicchan probably wouldn’t be an obvious link to Viktor. Except that Viktor knew the Japanese translation of _Melodies of the White Night_ so Yuuri can’t just assume that Viktor wouldn’t make the link between Vicchan and Viktor.

Crap.

Think fast.

“Stop distracting me with your Italian love songs and stories about your dog,” Yuuri says, straightening up and pushing himself off the boards. “Forget what I said earlier, I still have a wager to win.”

“Oh right,” Viktor says, snapping out of his daze, “– I almost forgot.”

Yuuri hands the hockey stick to Viktor. Viktor takes it with unwarranted confidence considering that his first shot isn't even within the crease. 

"And hockey is so easy?" Yuuri asks, mocking him a little.

Viktor pouts and hits the puck with everything he's got. He's not got much force in his arms, but Yuuri admits it's a decent slam shot. It's at least going to hit it's target.

The puck hits the back of the net and Viktor looks up smugly.

Point One Viktor.

He hands the stick back to Yuuri. Their fingers do not brush. Yuuri beats down his disappointment.

"Your turn."

Yuuri sighs. The worst that can happen is that he'll fall on his ass, nothing too irregular, just a little more embarrassing with Viktor watching. 

But Viktor is wrong to underestimate Yuuri, a waltz isn't too complicated. The waltz is the most basic member of the axel family of jumps that takes off in a forward direction. It's a half rotation jump, taking off from the forward outside edge of one foot and landing backwards on the outside edge of the other foot.

Easy.

Yuuri takes to the ice and Viktor skates to the boards, grabbing his water bottle to tag a gulp before turning around to watch Yuuri.

Yuuri starts with the simplest transition, one that consists of a series of forward strokes to establish speed. He shifts his weight a little, knowing that the last stroke must be on an outside curve which becomes the take-off entry. He extends his free leg backwards to start of the spring from the ice, gathers as much momentum as he can and then pushes himself off the ice. It's over fast. He lands on the backwards curve, a continuation of the takeoff curve with a flexed landing knee, stretched free leg, and head up, shoulders level, and back straight.

... Easy. 

Just like riding a bike... down a very steep icy hill.

Yuuri throws a triumphant look in Viktor's direction. 

Point One Yuuri.

Viktor skates over. The movement is so fast that Yuuri barely registers the change until Viktor is right in front of him.

"Who taught you to do _that_?"

Yuuri doesn't want to reveal that he started out as a skater so instead he says: "It's as you said, hockey and figure skating are similar."

Viktor looks at him in incredulously. Yuuri shoots him an innocent smile. Viktor pushes him playfully. 

One all.

"Sudden death?" Viktor proposes, traces of surprise still coating his face.

Yuuri shakes his head. He's tired and he can see that Viktor is too.

There’s meant to be an argument after that, but it’s terribly slow in coming. They stand sweating their sweat, half out of breath.

"No clever scheme to get me to play?" Yuuri asks, looking deeply at Viktor's face. Analysing it for any trace of mischief. What he finds there instead makes his head spin. Viktor's pupils are blown wide. _Oh._

"Not right now. No." A half-step, nothing more, but it puts him inside Yuuri's space. The position pulls Yuuri’s chin up rather than simply his eyes. Viktor’s hand hovers beside Yuuri's neck. 

All sense of conversation stops dead.

“I’m making you nervous,” Viktor states. 

“No.”

Viktor reaches up to Yuuri's face and Yuuri inhales, it's involuntary; he meets Viktor's eyes again.

Leaning forwards, Viktor is inches from Yuuri's pulse; heat and cologne coming off him in waves. His almost-feminine finger flash in the corner of Yuuri's eye. They tuck a stray black hair from his forehead. It's tender. Perfect. Like the chaos of his skate-swept hair. 

Viktor hasn't retreated yet. He's so close that Yuuri can feel him _breathing_.

“It would seem we're at an impasse,” Viktor says, voice low and far more silky than it has any right to be.

“I guess we both lose,” Yuuri replies - a little breathless - a little coy.

“Or that we both win?” Viktor's suggestive smirk is the floodlights sparking the whole shooting match-off.

Yuuri suddenly gets that urge. The urge to yank him forwards and close the distance between them.

He wants to kiss him. Really kiss him.

Not in that bored, indifferent way that he usually wants to kiss, well, anyone. Where the only service it provides is to make him feel wanted or to get his teammates off his back about not dating anyone. No, he wants to kiss him because he wants to know what it’s like to kiss Viktor - but he stops himself.

Rule One. 

Rule Two.

There will be no kissing.

“Okay,” Yuuri says, breaking the tension, “we both win.”

And then it's gone: the hair, Viktor's hand, that heavy moment.

It’s only after several minutes — when the silence no longer burns with that certain passionate flame of anticipation — that Viktor looks to him, his delicate face oddly pensive.

“Breakfast?”

* * *

“It’s colder than hell in here,” Yuuri comments, following Viktor into the little quaint cafe. “I feel like it was warmer in the ice rink.”

So when Viktor said breakfast. He really meant _breakfast_.

Viktor turns to look at him, leading Yuuri to a table. “Hell’s supposed to be hot, isn’t it? Unless you read your Dante.”

There's still electric in the air between them. Yuuri's hands still itch to reach out and entwine his fingers with Viktor's but it's a dull ache now. A bearable ache that Yuuri's not sure will ever go away, even if he took his fill and pressed his fingers over every inch of Viktor's skin.

The urge twitches.

Yuuri busies his hands, pulling out a chair and sitting down, splaying them across the wooden table, “Dante’s hell is cold?”

“Huh?” Viktor replies, plucking a menu from another table and handing one to Yuuri.

Yuuri takes it gratefully, stomach grumbling already. “Dante, you said...” 

"Oh,” Viktor leans causally against his chair opposite Yuuri, "in his book hell was made of circles, full of very elaborate punishments, tailored to each sinner. The centre was a barren plain—tundra frozen solid— and the worst of the worst ended up there, trapped in the ice.”

“Wow,” Yuuri considers this for a moment. “And you said that you didn’t go to College?”

“Home-schooled doesn’t mean uneducated,” Viktor smiles at Yuuri’s surprised face.

“No, I didn’t think – “

Viktor smiles slyly. It touches his eyes, flushing cool colour with warmth. “It’s okay. Lots of people think young skaters taken out of education to practice don’t get higher education. Rest assured, this is false.”

Yuuri’s relieved that Viktor doesn’t seem offended, “You’re not missing much in College. Most people I go to College with are Sports majors. They also minor in getting drunk and falling asleep in clubs.”

That gets a smile out of Viktor so Yuuri calls it a win.

“Who ends up there?” Yuuri asks, interested, “Dante’s hell?”

“I, uh... I think it was called ‘Cocytus’. The people there were guilty of the most terrible crimes of all.”

“What kind of crimes?”

“They were all traitors. Traitors to different things: country, relatives, friends. That’s what I remember, anyway.”

Yuuri draws in a breath, again returning his gaze to Viktor, “Themselves?”

“I suppose,” Viktor replies, “you okay?”

“Oh, sure,” he mumbles, “do you think it’s true?”

“What?”

“That sinners go to hell?”

“I think that’s a very deep conversation for 3am.”

“Right,” Yuuri says, shaking himself, “I’m surprised this place is still open.”

The coffee shop. The 3AM atmosphere. Viktor Nikiforov. Everything about this situation seems surreal.

“Officially it’s not,” Viktor replies casually, “I called in a favour.”

It's nice inside, a warm friendly atmosphere but cold - the heaters only just springing to life.

Yuuri opens his mouth, “Oh,” he says almost a touch taken back, “thank you.”

He doesn't get chance to say much else before a cheery woman bundles over to the table to take their order. “Heating should be on in a moment loves. Viktor,” the woman beams in an awe-stuck voice, “anything on the menu, whatever you want, free on the house, for you and your date.”

Yuuri tries not to choke on his next intake of breath. “Date?” Yuuri hadn't assumed that this was... what this was... but is it?

A date?

Guys can get breakfast together platonically, right?

Brunch, Phichit's always telling him. That's when it's a date.

“Viktor inspired my little one to skate,” the lady continues, unbeknownst she's just kicked off Yuuri's inner turmoil. "He's in juniors now, would you believe? A real little superstar in the making."

“It's nothing Sarah,” Viktor says, "thank you for opening so early."

Naturally Viktor would be so annoyingly perfect and polite. Naturally he's able to charm this cafe owner. Naturally he'd know the cafe owner, and be on first name basis with her. Is there anything this man can't do?

"No trouble at all," she flutters around the table for a moment, "let me go grab some flowers. More romantic, wouldn't you agree?"

"We're not..." Yuuri stammers, "I mean this isn't -" he stops himself because, despite his inner turmoil, he'd never actually came to a conclusion. Is this a date? Yuuri's not too sure what this is. It's _something_ for sure. He just can't quite put a label on what that _something_ is.

Sarah returns a moment later and takes their order. Yuuri falls silent. Viktor's phone buzzes. He takes it out and pops it on the table. It beeps again, vibrating and rattling violently against the solid surface.

"They seem pretty insistent," Yuuri comments.

"Yakov," Viktor explains, waving his hand.

"At three in the morning?"

Viktor's smile relocates to the corner of his mouth as he begins his text. "All the time."

“Anything important?” he asks, nodding to where Viktor is busy typing a response.

"Decidedly not. He noticed that I wasn't back yet, wants to shout at me for breaking my curfew probably."

“Coaches really set them?” Yuuri asks, “The curfews, I mean.”

Viktor goes back to tapping on his phone, frowning at something. “Mine does.”

“I think the only reason mine doesn't is because he knows everyone will break them anyway.” Yuuri gestures to Viktor as if to say, 'Exhibit A'.

"Hmm. I don't think Yakov quite expected me to break my curfew training with American hockey players and taking them to breakfast to discuss Dante over egg-whites and coffee."

Viktor probably means to sound playful but his voice matches his eyes, deep and tempting.

Yuuri smiles tightly, "I doubt he'd be pleased. After all, he did tell you to stay away."

“Yes, but where would be the fun in that?" He slides the phone shut again and returns it to his pocket, flashing Yuuri a brief smile. “What Yakov doesn't know won't hurt him.”

“What happens in the rink stays in the rink,” Yuuri promises, making a motion to zip his lips and paraphrasing his teammates earlier 'what happens in the Village, stays in the Village' comment.

“Naturally,” Viktor smirks.

Yuuri pulls out his own phone, quickly typing a message to Phichit:  _Hey, uhhhh I have a weird question_

The response is almost automatic. Yuuri jumps as the notification pops up.

**New text from Phichit:**

_I'm here for all your weird needs_

**New text from Phichit:**

_Ask away_

Yuuri's not surprised Phichit is still up. He's wired to his phone, he sleeps with it. Yuuri's pretty confident that Phichit's relationship with technology is an unhealthy addiction. His phone even has it's own special place on Phichit's pillow for when he sleeps.

_What does it mean when someone asks you out to breakfast?_

_Would that be classed as a date?_

**New text from Phichit:**

_Depends_

**New text from Phichit:**

_did they ask you?_

Yuuri nods, then realises Phichit can't see him and types out _Yes_ before hitting send.

**New text from Phichit:**

_They hot?_

Yuuri flushes, looks up at Viktor. _Very_ , he types back. _Like real life model hot._

**New text from Phichit:**

DEETS

**New text from Phichit:**

_DEETS IMMEDIATELY. LEAVE OUT NOTHING._

**New text from Phichit** _:_

_Plz I'm so boredddd_

Yuuri chews on his lip.

 _Nothing's happened yet,_ he replies.

**New text from Phichit:**

_Yet,,,,,, ughhh live voraciously for both of us_

Yuuri taps away: _Voraciously?_

**New text from Phichit:**

_Indeed, my dear Yuuri, I did my English homework_

He never does his homework when Yuuri's there. Except for photography, but Phichit's photography portfolio is a different story altogether. Huh. Maybe Celestino has it wrong and Yuuri is the bad influence.

 _The breakfast dilemma????_ Yuuri says back.

**New text from Phichit:**

_Ask them how they like their eggs_

**New text from Phichit:**

_Nod politely at whatever their answer is and then when they ask you back "how do you like your eggs?" just say 'fertilised' and wink ;) that should make it a date_

Yuuri groans, _That's not a date!!! That's the start of a bad porno_

**New text from Phichit:**

_Idkkkk just ask them if its a date_

Yuuri pauses. That's... reasonable.

Hmm.

 _You're actually helpful sometimes_ , he types back to Phichit before slipping his phone back into his jacket.

Yuuri nervously taps his foot. The next words out of his mouth could ruin whatever this 'thing' is with Viktor. Which although nice, is an undefined 'thing'.

“Is this,” Yuuri stops but then kicks himself, forcing himself to ask. “Is this a date?”

Viktor takes a sip of coffee.

“This is breakfast.”

Right. Okay. That doesn't answer anything.

"Right."

Frowning, Yuuri looks down to the table with his breakfast still on it. He nods before thinking. Because that’s not it, not really.

Sitting at the same level, the height difference makes a lack of eye contact nearly natural.

Viktor frowns, taking in Yuuri's reaction and not knowing what to do with it.

"You said ' _I'm not like that_ ' when Chris asked."

“Right,” Yuuri repeats, because that makes all that's happened between them thus far make no sense at all. “Thanks.”

"I mean, I'm _Russian_ ," Viktor says, like that just explains everything. "And I've been reminded by many people that I'm not very subtle. If this was a date you wouldn't have to ask for any sort of clarification. Believe me, you'd _know_."

Yuuri nods.

It's true. He accepts Viktor's answer.

And that should have been the end of that.

Except it's not. Because on the way back, just before they reach Yuuri's hotel in Olympic Village, Yuuri opens his big mouth and says, “Thanks, for the date– uh, breakfast.” _Fuck_. “I meant to say breakfast.”

Viktor's eyebrows shoot up and he looks smug but doesn't comment any further than that.

“Thanks for joining me, and letting me have a go at shooting the puck. It was... insightful."

Yuuri wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

He tries to go along with it, to grab onto the obvious scapegoat Viktor has offered him. "Hockey not as violent as you first thought?" 

"Hmm. It still seems pretty rough, I think I'd come away with too many cuts and bruises for my god complex to handle."

Yuuri visibly relaxes, the tension dispersing from his shoulders.

"Less than you'd think. But I've had my fair share of concussions. I was also unfortunate enough to break a kid's leg when we were about fifteen; not something I take pride in."

Viktor purses his lips, "While figure skating, a girl on tour had a blade dig into her thigh. She had to get nine stitches but was lucky enough to have the skate miss her muscle."

Yuuri winces. The idea of sliced flesh after eating, unsettling his stomach slightly.

Viktor watches Yuuri's squeamish reaction, thoughtfully pressing a finger to his lips, "It's funny. I can't imagine you fighting."

"I try to avoid it," Yuuri replies because it's true. Fighting isn't something he thought he'd grow up doing but it is an integral part of hockey. "As best I can."

"You should be careful."

"You're the second person to tell me that today," Yuuri replies, slowing as they reach his familiar building. "Well, this is me."

"Oh. This walk only seems to be getting shorter."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"It's the Opening Ceremony," Viktor reminds him. After seeing Yuuri's look of disappointment, Viktor re-adjusts his answer. "But after I'll see you."

"Okay," Yuuri nods, hoping that relief isn't too noticeable in his tone. He begins searching in his pocket for him room key. Pulling it out, he gives Viktor one last look before turning around. "See you tomorrow." 

Viktor pauses, turns Yuuri back around, "Just so you know, for what it's worth, it wasn't a date because I didn't want it to be."

"What?"

"I'd be happy to take you out a real date, if you'd go, that is."

"You would?"

"I'd love to."

"Really?"

"Yes," he grins a little, "Really."

"But... why?"

There's no hesitation before Viktor answers. It's almost a reflex response, “You're quiet, subtle, and clever. You know how to make yourself the centre of a room, even if you don’t realise it. You have to be aware of the heads swivelling to look at you, and it doesn’t affect you. I like that.”

Yuuri can't summon up a reply anything even half-intelligible to that. Damn Viktor. If making Yuuri messing up simple conversations were an Olympic sport, he'd be a champion.

"But then you did suggest that you were straight," Viktor reminds him, taking a step closer.

Yuuri's body fails to obey basic commands such as _move away._ Viktor'shand does fit awfully nicely against his cheek.

Yuuri shivers, nearly sways, and the small motion is enough. Enough to let his imagination run wild. He imagines that Viktor tastes of sweetened coffee and smells like the rink. Yuuri shakes his head, lowering his brow.

Viktor pulls back. Blue eyes search Yuuri’s features.

“Don't you ever give in? I mean, for one second, don't you ever get the urge to fling your hands in the air and let yourself take what you want?”

Yes. Right now. 

He must have conveyed something. Something which told Viktor _yes_ because the atmosphere shifts unexpectedly. It's like all the air has been sucked out of the scene. All the oxygen has been cut off from Yuuri's brain.

One hand behind his neck, the other at his hip, Viktor seems determined to drape himself over Yuuri. Yuuri really ought to refuse... Except, he wants to touch Viktor so badly it's making his fingertips burn.

He dreads to think what would happen if Viktor could see him pressing fingernails into palms. If he could see his gnawed lower lip. If he could taste his need.

But he can't.

Viktor continues his casual exploration of Yuuri's body, innocent touches here and there. Yuuri leans into his touch.

Hot breath ghosts over Yuuri's neck, sending tingles and goosebumps along his skin as he whispers, “And if you do, how do you stop yourself? _Why_ do you stop yourself?”

Words are suddenly far too much for him.

Yuuri does not want to talk. His words are not helping him now.

He wants Viktor's hands on him. Not just his fingertips. All of him.

And Yuuri's not talking about a _fuck_.

The contact he desires skirts seduction by inches, all the skin that isn't erotic but is still the bridge to other regions. He wants Viktor's hands to find the things he's finding, the hardness of his collarbones, the soft surface of his back, the curve of his waist.

But Viktor doesn't touch him at all.

He stands close enough that the promise of the touch is there. Yuuri just has to be the one to take the leap and reach for it.

Yuuri's frozen in place. A puppet on Viktor's string. He presses his mouth to Yuuri's ear as he speaks. Yuuri's head slowly tilts beneath the soft, warm pressure of lips and breath. His neck offers itself up, lonely and wanting.

“Like this,” Viktor murmurs against his skin, above his skin, the very edge of contact. “You’re responsive, you’re aroused, and yet you refuse to reciprocate. You want more, but you won’t say that you do."

He gives Yuuri's lips nearly a true touch, only _nearly_ , all breath and no kiss.

Rule One pokes Yuuri on his back.

Rule Two screams in Yuuri's face.

Viktor hums. Hands _finally_  breaching fabric, sliding under Yuuri's coat, around his sides. They curl at the small of his back, bidding him inexorably to arch. Then as quick as they're there, they're taken away.

Yuuri makes a sound which can only be described as a whine.

A deep, fond chuckle escapes Viktor's mouth instead of a kiss, the rumble is so close to Yuuri’s back it makes him quake. The slightest tilt would lay him against it, against Viktor's narrow chest.

“I’ll see you at the Opening Ceremony,” Viktor says finally, pulling himself away from his position inside Yuuri's personal space. Yuuri nearly loses his footing as Viktor turns away, taking all the heat away with him into the night.

Yuuri watches Viktor walk away, catching his breath.

He's still shivering when he reaches his room and burrows himself under his covers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating is probably going up soon, I've kept it clean since I'm crossposting to FF.net and they're gross-ass prudes but E stuff is uhhh coming (no pun intended)

**Author's Note:**

> If you're intrigued here's my [tumblr](https://astelso.tumblr.com)
> 
> criticism/suggestions are very welcome.


End file.
